


Rabbit Punch

by wiseorfool



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2012, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiseorfool/pseuds/wiseorfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons, which live as openly as humans, run cage matches that pit monsters against monsters, angels against angels, and demons against whatever they feel like fighting on a given day. If you want to win the fights, your best chance is to own an archangel--which Dean and Sam don't. They have to make the best of what they've got in Castiel, who loses as often than he wins. Dean finds himself becoming more protective of Castiel as they continue moving through the ranks, but when a fight goes wrong and the Winchesters find out some hard truths about their family business, the life they've cobbled together for themselves going to fall apart around their ears if they can't defend themselves. Worse, if they're not careful, they might not make it out alive. Lucky for them, they've got angels watching over them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 DeanCas Big Bang challenge on Livejournal. With great thanks to my beta and my wonderful artist, without both of whom I couldn't have completed this. Please also go lavish praise on my artist, who posted her art [here](http://amoralambiguity.livejournal.com/163040.html).
> 
> There is some Latin used in the fic; I did my best to provide translations. Hover over it and the translation should pop up!

They start calling him “the little angel that could.”

He’s better than the last one, anyway, the one they’d bought at Dean’s insistence, the one with red hair and the brightest blue eyes they’ve seen on an angel yet. She hadn’t done anything in the ring or out, refused to fight, refused to nourish herself, until the battered body and lack of nutrition started taking their toll. Dean tried, sure, but angels don’t eat the same way humans do, and nobody’s figured out intravenous fluids for them yet, so when her feathers started dropping out in huge clumps, he finally admitted the pretty one was a bust and they’d quietly had her put down.

Sam still flinches to think just how much they lost on her, flinches again when he thinks how much deeper they are in the hole with the new one that Dean’s picked up, less pretty but more resilient. A lot more resilient.

Castiel doesn’t ever seem to feed himself either, but he’s no thinner now than when they first picked him up, and his bruises and broken limbs heal as fast as any other angel’s. He’s weaker than others by far, the demons that climb into the ring with him beat him with a sick sort of glee. But he doesn’t stay down. He never stays down, even when he probably should, and more than once, Sam’s had to call a fight because he’s already had to destroy one angel and that was expensive enough. He doesn’t need to go that much more into the hole, not even for Dean.

In fact, Sam’s on the verge of throwing in the towel on one of those brutal beat downs that Castiel earns his nickname. Sam knows the demon in the ring, he's seen it go up against angels before, but holy shit, Sam is sure this is the first time he's seen it snap an angel's wings this quick. He winces at Castiel’s pained cry, glad Dean’s off at the bar instead of watching the fight because there’s no way Dean would let things continue after an opener like that, the soft bastard, and shouts as loud as the rest of the crowd when Castiel wrenches free, trailing his wings behind him like a wounded bird. The left one’s already healing, but crooked. They’ll have to crack it again later and set it properly to make sure it heals right.

The demon follows after him, grabbing a wing and wrenching it down to the floor. Castiel’s mouth opens, and maybe he makes a noise, but not one Sam can hear over the din. Just in case Castiel had any ideas about backing away again, the demon plants its foot firmly against the upper joint in the wing and bears down, waiting until Castiel is _really_ thrashing before decking him, a meaty fist crossing his face. Sam can see the black eye forming already; demons aren’t exactly known for passing out love taps to their opponents and they've got definite hard-ons for doing angels as much damage as possible.

It continues like that for, god, a good two minutes at least, before Castiel can’t hold himself upright any longer and drops, the demon stepping back to bask in the approving roar of the crowd. It turns in a slow circle, hands upraised and goading the fight’s attendees into yelling all the louder and behind it Castiel stirs. He’s covered in dirt, filth ground into sweat-dampened skin and even at this distance, Sam can see his legs shaking, but he gets up. He gets up, plants his feet, and barely wobbles, and Sam can’t help but be impressed. There’s a point in a fight where any other angel taking a beating like that would surrender. Even Lucifer’s just _stopped_ in the middle of a fight and refused to move on a few occasions, snarling at anyone or anything that comes too close, and if the so-called Morningstar sometimes won’t stand up again, it amazes Sam that this little nothing of an angel will.

The demon turns to face Castiel again and grins widely, addressing the crowd. “This one just doesn’t know when to quit!” it says, and the crowd roars its approval. They scream, working themselves into a frenzy when the demon drags Castiel back to the ground by his hair and obviously shattered right wing; they laugh, the sound of it almost deafening, when Castiel gets his hands up, covers the demon’s face with them and exactly nothing happens, the sigils tattooed onto his wrists locking down his angelic ability to exorcise with a touch. He tries every fight. He fails every fight.

Castiel wobbles to his feet when the demon finally leaves off the latest round of beating him senseless to peacock in front of the crowd again. Sam reaches for the towel, because for _fuck’s sake_ , it’s not like he really expected they’d win this one anyway, and at least they’ll get a couple hundred bucks out of this just for putting Castiel in the fight in the first place, but a hand covers his. Stops him.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam grinds out. “Thought you were at the bar.”

Dean takes the towel from Sam’s hand, wadding it up. “Heard the shouts. Thought our boy might be winning.”

And damned if that isn’t about the stupidest thing Sam’s heard in a long time. “I’m buying the next one. Yours all suck.” Perfect timing: the demon lands a blow to Castiel’s stomach and he staggers back, though he manages not to fall this time. Sam reaches for the towel again and Dean shoves it under his shirt, glowering. “You don’t throw that in the ring right now, we might not be able to patch him up.”

The crowd feels the same way, judging by the way they’re egging the demon on. It turns in a slow circle, posing and preening, and a few people wolf whistle at it. Other demons, Sam guesses, or unusually stupid humans.

Dean ignores Sam _and_ the prevailing opinion of the crowd to lean over the partition separating the masses from the fighters and yells at their scrawny, bleeding, broken fucking angel. “Beat the shit out of him, Cas!”

Castiel can’t hear him over the throng, and it’s not like he responds to either of them often at the best of times, but Sam could swear he shifts just a little, easing his weight onto the balls of his feet. The demon turns around and--

\--and it’s like Castiel fucking explodes, pushing forward, his leg coming up and his foot snapping out in a quick arc that cracks into the demon’s temple hard enough Sam swears he heard the impact over all the screaming.

Or maybe he did hear the impact, because the crowd’s fallen silent and the demon’s hit the ground with black smoke oozing out of its nose and mouth and swirling a little in confusion and holy shit, did Castiel just win a fight?

A hand slaps Sam’s back and Dean whoops, breaking the silence. “Hot damn, Cas, you’re the little angel that could!”

The nickname sticks.

Of course it does.

It’s on the near side of dawn when they finally finish counting their money and pile back into the truck to head home. Dean hefts Castiel into the back of it, arranging his wings so they mostly fit into the truck bed, and Sam drives slow, hoping to avoid any gusts that might wrench the angel’s wings worse.

Sam puts the truck in park and lets Dean drag Castiel out of the back. They take turns guiding him inside because the bones in his wings might be partly hollowed, but that doesn’t make them light. He goes docilely, leaning heavily on whomever happens to be supporting him, tangling his fingers the the hems of their shirts, curling them into their pockets. If he didn’t know angels better, Sam could almost believe it’s a sort of drunken affection, but angels aren’t given to showing affection to their own kind, much less mere humans, and never drunk. Sam knows; he’s watched Dean pour bottle after bottle into Castiel to no effect.

Sometimes Sam thinks Castiel’s just humoring them. The time Lucifer broke out of his cage is still fresh in Sam’s memory. Bobby’s frantic phone call for help and the mad dash to South Dakota to help their mentor lock up a damn _archangel_ could easily happen again. Honestly, if he didn’t know just how much money Lucifer’s fights rake in, Sam would question Bobby’s sanity. There’s just no way keeping something like that locked in a basement is a good idea. He’s all too aware of the fact that angels are still physically stronger than humans, despite the layers and layers of binding magic laid on them. 

But unlike Lucifer--hell, unlike almost every other angel out there, Balthazar being a notably pampered exception to all the rules--Castiel never tries to break out of his cage. He never tries to push past Dean or Sam, never fights when they put him away, never struggles when they renew the seals that keep him bound and prevent him from flying, never so much as rattles the bars. He doesn’t even talk all that much, though Sam knows angels can. Lucifer spews venom in ten different, completely indecipherable languages whenever anyone comes within ten feet of his cage and up at Ellen and Jo’s place, Gabriel never shuts his fucking mouth.

Not Castiel, though. Castiel just watches them go about their daily business, perched on the edge of the mangy cot that serves as his bed. (“We should get him a new one,” Dean says, “doesn’t feel right, making him sleep in the same place we put Anael down.” “With what money, Dean?” Sam counters. “We’re not exactly putting an archangel on the rosters here.”) When Dean pulls him out for fights, he stands patiently while he’s fitted with carved iron restraints, eyes fixed on Dean’s hands while they test latches and chains.

But all angels struggle when hurt and here, at least, Castiel is no exception. They have him belly-down on the ground now, Dean on top of him, leaning forward and bracing his forearms against the back of Castiel’s neck to try and keep him in place while Sam re-breaks both his wings. Dean flinches with each wet crack and Castiel pants underneath him, making soft “ah, ah, ah” noises, clawing at the floor uselessly with his bloodied hands.

Sam thinks it’s pretty sick, the way some people use their angels like glorified toys, breaking them just to hear their wounded songs, but right now, watching Castiel shudder and writhe on the floor and seeing the color rise in Dean’s face while he holds the angel still as best he can, maybe Sam can understand _why_.

Setting Castiel’s wings is mostly a matter of breaking them in the same places the demon did and holding each break in place until it knits back together straight. They’re still fragile and they’ll be useless in a fight for a couple days, but that’s okay. With their winnings, they can afford to keep him out of the ring for a while. Hell, they might even be able to afford to fix the plumbing in the bathrooms. Sam doesn’t know about Dean, but he’d love to take a real shower instead of the quick sponge baths they’ve resorted to lately.

Castiel moans, bringing Sam’s attention back to the present. Dean shifts his weight back and strokes his hand down bruised ribs.

“Easy, Cas,” he says, the same tone of voice he used when Sam was sick as a kid. “One more and then we’ll get you cleaned up.”

Sam snorts, bracing his foot against Castiel’s wing, prepping for the final break. “Cleaning up” mostly consists of mixing some salt and holy water in a bowl and leaving it in the cage for Castiel to drink if he wants, which he usually doesn’t. “He’s gonna hit you in the face again if you don’t pin him,” Sam says.

Dean grunts and lies back down, using his body weight to keep Castiel from thrashing free when Sam sets his heel against the wing and _pushes_ until the bone gives way. The sound Castiel makes is high and quiet, more a sharp exhalation than anything else; he stops fighting them all at once and goes limp on the floor. Not that Sam can blame him. Angels heal fast, but Castiel’s just had his wings broken half a dozen times in the last hour they’ve been working on him alone, to say nothing of the beating he sustained in the ring.

“All done?”

“All done,” Sam confirms, giving Dean a hand up.

Together they lift and fold Castiel’s wings carefully against his back, mindful of the still healing fractures. No sense in damaging what they just spent so long to fix. Sam tried to carry him back into the spare room that serves as his cage once, the first time they had to break and set his wings after a bad loss, but the look in Castiel’s eyes had been so pained and so _hunted_ that the brothers agreed it was better to just cover him and let him rest. It’s not as though Castiel has ever tried to run and their house is small enough that it’s easy to keep an eye on him from the kitchen.

Dean retrieves beer from the fridge, offering one to Sam and oh gross, it’s gone flat. Sam grimaces, opting to watch Dean count their winnings (again) instead.

“We did good,” he says, still a little stunned by the literal pile of cash on their kitchen table.

Dean grins, manic, waving a wad of bills in Sam’s face. “We did better than good, man. We did _great_. We got a good 20k out of that! Fuck me, I knew Cas had it in him somewhere.”

“That was luck and you know it.” Sam leans back in the chair, glancing into the living room. Castiel doesn’t show any signs of moving yet. “He’s pretty weak, Dean. I say we sell him now, take tonight's winnings plus whatever we get for him at a short sale and pick up another one. Saw in the paper the other day that there's an auction coming up.”

“Like hell,” Dean says and goddammit, Sam knows that look. Sam hates that look. That’s the look that made him bid on Anael half a year ago. “C’mon, Sam, he just won a fight! We can’t sell him now. Let’s at least hold onto him and...I dunno, send him for stud or something.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift, his forehead wrinkling. “Stud. Castiel.” Castiel with his too skinny hips and strange pattern of scarring on his chest, and his enormous eyes and the giant bags under them and the slight double chin that looks out of place on an otherwise lean body. Even if Castiel didn't qualify as "unconventionally attractive" at best, Sam can’t imagine anyone wanting to bed an angel that’s been in 37 fights and won exactly one of them. By chance. Nope.

Fortunately Dean smiles at Sam, one of his crooked, sheepish almost-grins. “Yeah, okay, he’d suck at it. But point stands, I’m not selling him.”

They lapse into silence for a while, Dean stubborn and Sam hesitant. The only sounds in the house are the slow shift of Castiel’s primary feathers brushing against the floor in time with his breathing and the gentle clink of Dean’s ring against the beer bottle.

“Maybe we could get out instead,” Sam says after a while, cracking open a can of worms he's been holding onto for too long.

“Get out?” Dean pulls back, forehead creasing. “C’mon, Sam, the going’s just getting good, we can’t back out now! Besides, Dad would’ve--”

“No. Dean. That’s just it. The fights, the house, those were Mom and Dad’s dreams, and Mom’s not around for the fights anymore and Dad’s not around for the house--”

“Sam, don’t.”

Sam ignores him. It’s the first time he’s brought any of this up in at least six months, and Dean isn’t stopping him this time. “Do you even know how much we spend on Castiel? Taxes, registration fees, upkeep on the sigils?" Sam ticks the expenses off on his fingers. "He's not exactly cheap. I know Bobby does okay, but Lucifer _wins_. Lucifer wins, Ellen's talking about putting Balthazar up for stud and us? We’ve got a half-dead body in our living room and twenty thousand dollars we're gonna lose the next time we put him in a ring, so why wait to lose it when we could...I dunno. Fix the roof. Get real jobs.”

A muscle twitches in Dean’s jaw, but he stays quiet. Sam takes it as a cue to keep going.

“They’re gone, Dean. And Dad got into the fights because Mom was a fan, you know that. What’s your excuse?”

For better or worse, Castiel chooses that moment to move, signaling that he’s tired of lying face down on the battered hardwood by pushing to his knees, unsteady and unfocused. Dean abandons his beer and his brother to run to Castiel and hold his wings up before they can flop out to the sides. Castiel looks up like he’s never seen Dean before, eyes unfocused and head rolling from one side to the other, a doll with a broken neck.

“Dean,” he says, a quiet exhalation, and tries to get to his feet.

“Dammit, hold up,” Dean snaps. “Sam! Little help here!”

And Sam sighs, because this is what Castiel does. Castiel knows he’s supposed to sleep in the cage and not anywhere else; maybe Sam should be thankful they lucked out and got one of those rare angels that tries really, really hard to be obedient because most of them don’t give a flying fuck but that kind of loyalty tends to lead to a shortened lifespan for angels. Sam doesn't think the occasional moment of rebellion would hurt all that much.

Sam wraps his arms around Castiel before the angel’s legs can give out under him, carefully arranging his arms to avoid putting too much pressure on the healing bones. Castiel’s head lolls against his shoulder, coming to rest tucked under his chin. Dean charges into the cage, yanks the spare blankets off the cot and gets out of the way so Sam can put Castiel to bed. They close the door, but leave it unlocked. With any other angel, that would be a terrible idea, but Castiel isn't exactly a flight risk.

Dean vanishes into the kitchen, returning a minute later with the usual silver bowl full of holy water and salt. He offers it to Sam and they say their usual good nights, both happy to leave the earlier conversation behind.

When Sam wakes up the next morning, sunlight helpfully stabbing its way through his eyelids, Castiel is crouching near the cage door as he puts the silver bowl down. He straightens up again, blinking, and Sam can see that the ugly bruising that mottled his torso last night has already faded into a sick yellow. Goddamn, he wishes he could heal as fast as an angel does.

“Morning, Castiel,” Sam says.

Castiel tips his head and says nothing. Not that Sam expected much.

The day after that, Castiel is standing at the door when Sam comes downstairs, hands curled loosely around the bars, his wings slightly spread and blocking Sam's view of the cage through the door. “Sam,” he says. “Hello.”

“He wants to go out,” Dean yells from the kitchen. “Told him you’d do it.”

Sam shakes his head, resigned. Trust Dean to want a pet and not want to have to do any of the hard work.

No, that’s an unfair thought, Sam chides himself later, as he watches Castiel stretch in the sunlight. Dean’s the one who tried everything he could to keep Anael healthy, and Dean’s the one who curled up with her on the cot the night they put her down, stroking her hair until she finally stopped breathing. Sam does most of the heavy lifting, sure, but it’s Dean who ends up carrying the worst burdens. Sam knows certain aspects of the business hit Dean harder than they hit most people, and Dean’s never been good at shaking things off and moving on, even if he’s better at hiding it now than he used to be.

Dean’s voice floats outside, mid-conversation with Bobby. Fuck knows what they’re talking about, but it sounds like mindless chatter, no business. Sam tries to make out words but can’t, the words blurring together and indistinct, so he turns his attention back to Castiel just in time to see the angel spread his wings fully, arms over his head, back arched, and it’s sights like _that_ that remind Sam why he likes angels, despite them being expensive and difficult.

They’re _pretty_.

Castiel isn't only pretty, of course. He speaks half a dozen languages that Sam knows of, and he's sometimes disturbingly astute, picking up on Dean's mood shifts before Sam does. It's unfortunate that languages and being able to read Dean like a book don't pay the bills.

“Soon as you're done out here, I'm getting kind of hungry.” Because Sam can smell bacon and he knows if he doesn’t get back inside soon, Dean’s going to eat it all.

Castiel turns, folding and rearranging his wings carefully. The tips drag on the ground as always and he flinches when he tucks the right one in. Given how badly the demon shattered it, there was no way to avoid a second break, but Sam feels a little guilty all the same.

“Sorry for those, by the way. Wouldn’t have done it if there’d been another option.”

To Sam’s surprise, Castiel reaches out, enfolding Sam’s hands in his own. “Thank you for your help, Sam,” he says, which is more than Castiel usually says at once. More than he usually says to Sam at all. He mostly talks to Dean, not that Sam thinks Dean can understand the complicated Latin grammar Castiel throws at him. Even Sam only catches half of it.

Sam also only catches half the bacon, the rest of it burned and inedible. Dean keeps singing off-key and Castiel turns his nose up at everything offered to him, choosing to sit on his cot with his back to the rest of the house. It's a pretty good morning as mornings go. Sam can't find any reason to complain.

The day before Castiel's next scheduled bout, Sam wakes up to the low sound of voices downstairs. He stumbles blearily from his room to the landing while his brain wakes up enough to process what he's hearing. Dean's voice registers first, badly mangling some Latin, soon followed by Castiel repeating the phrase and gently correcting Dean's pronunciation. Sam listens from the top of the stairs for a while, soaking in the atmosphere, before he finally registers the phrase Castiel is teaching Dean and stifles a laugh.

_Accipere quam facere praestat injuriam._

Well, if there's one thing Sam's learned about angels, and Castiel in particular, it's that their humor tends to be dry and biting.

Sam listens a while longer, until Castiel moves from pointedly cutting phrases that Dean doesn't understand into the _Confiteor_ , which is more complex but clearly holds more meaning for Castiel. His voice takes on a certain rhythm, as if each phrase is a breath or heartbeat. Dean mimics it, poorly, and after a few tries, lapses into silence, letting Castiel sing. From the way Castiel's voice hitches at a few points, Sam gets the idea the _Confiteor_ is a poor substitute for something else entirely, that Castiel wants to express some closely held emotion, some deeply felt conviction but doesn't have any words to use that Dean will understand. It's a frustration Sam's well acquainted with.

It comes as no surprise that Castiel loses one of the next two fights he's put in, and thank fuck, neither of his opponents break his wings this time. The first is a werewolf that's too stupid to try but even less willing to go down than Castiel. They're both bloody messes by the end of it, but there's no such thing as a tie in these fights, and refs never call for angels. Azazel stops by after the fight and offers smug condolences and for some reason, that irritates Sam worse than the fact that they've lost on a technicality. The second, days later, is another angel. She balks at fighting for reasons Sam doesn't know and Castiel chokes her out, walking stiffly to the far side of the ring the moment she stops struggling and goes limp. Dean growls at the loss and crows at the win. Sam does the math and is just happy they've broken even.

"That's one hell of a bird you've got. He takes a licking and keeps on ticking," says a voice over Sam's shoulder. Sam doesn't need to turn around to know who's talking to him. He can probably guess how the conversation will go, too.

"Castiel's not for sale, Crowley, same as the last three times you asked."

Crowley clucks his tongue, pushing his way to the fences to stand next to Sam and offer him a drink. Sam takes it, grateful and wary all at once. It's not that he's had bad dealings with Crowley, especially considering the guy's a _demon_ , but there's something about him that's always set Sam on edge anyway.

"Believe it or not, I'm not actually here to try and make a deal." Crowley nods toward the ring, where a crew of low-level demons sweep and spread fresh sand on the floor, prepping for the next pair of combatants. "I'm full up on angels at the moment, and no, I'm not looking to get into the ring with your boy, either. I'm a businessman. I've no interest in engaging in fisticuffs."

Sam chuckles, trying to picture Crowley 'engaging in fisticuffs.' It's funny.

Funny and obvious what he's thinking, because Crowley scowls, knocking back the remainder of his own drink. "I came to do you a _favor_ , lugnut. I saw you've put him on the lists for the bouts next month."

"Just temporarily. Might take him off," Sam says, though it's a halfhearted lie at best. Castiel's been on the Roadhouse's rosters for weeks now.

"I wasn't going to mention it at all, but after that upset you pulled a while back, thought I better. Not that I think he'll come up against her, but Azazel's picked up a new beast to put on the rosters. There isn't much information on her, but I've heard some rumors that she packs a nasty bite. Apparently she's put three angels down already and Azazel is suitably delighted by her performances." He snorts at the end of it, like he can't really believe it, and no wonder. Hurting an angel is easy. Killing one is hard.

Sam's not too worried, though. It's just a rumor, and Sam's well aware of the way those can blow up. Talk to people who weren't at the arena the night Castiel suddenly found his balls, and people are already making it sound like he took out four (or five, or in one case, twelve) demons with hardly a scratch on him. Dean's already offended a potential sponsor who believed the four demons story by laughing in the guy's face, but Sam can't blame him. He'd bitten his cheeks to keep from doing the same thing and they'd ached for hours.

He bids Crowley a polite farewell, retrieves his brother from the bar and their angel from the holding cells, and drags all their asses home. 

Already passing from drunk and into hungover, Dean stumbles his way upstairs, leaving Sam to take care of Castiel for the night. For his part, Castiel doesn't look like he needs the help; most of his bruises are already healed and since nothing's broken, there's not much for Sam to do other than mix up a bowl of holy water.

The cage door creaks when Sam steps inside, a dangerous thing to do with any other angel, but Castiel, busy picking grit out of his wings, doesn't even look up. Sam puts the bowl down and watches him for a while, fascinated by the way Castiel's muscles shift under his skin, the pull at his shoulders when he flexes his wings.

The quiet drags out more comfortably than Sam expected. Ten minutes, maybe a little longer, Sam isn't counting and the clock in the kitchen died a long time ago. He feels like he should say something, apologize again for the hell he and Dean are putting Castiel through, but it's all empty. They could pull out of the fights. They wouldn't be any richer or poorer for it, not really. They'd still be in the same house with the same problems, there just wouldn't be an angel sleeping in a room converted into a cage.

But he tries anyway, pulling up the remains of his high school Latin and fumbling his way through a phrase. " _Actus me invito factus non est meus actus_. " It's a poor excuse. Sam hasn't been forced into this, not like Castiel has, but he hopes that maybe the phrase and the language and what he hopes is appropriate formality will convey his reluctance in the matter. It's not him, it's Dean and before Dean it was Dad. It's not Sam's fault. It's not.

Castiel snorts. "Don't be stupid," he says, and Sam's too surprised by the fact that Castiel is speaking to him at all to be insulted. "You can walk away. I can't," Castiel says, still focused on his wings. They stretch out over his head, ink-black and looking more like shadows than something made of flesh and bone, though Sam knows exactly how solid—and how frail—they are.

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence again for several minutes, only disturbed by the occasional creak of Dean moving upstairs or the house settling. When the weight of it becomes too much for Sam, he opens his mouth to try again, but Castiel beats him to it.

"There was a war for Earth, back when you humans were still struggling to make fire. Heaven lost, God abandoned us, and now we rot in cages with our wings clipped." He says it matter-of-factly, and Sam struggles to hear any bitterness in his tone. Maybe there isn't any to hear. "My home lies in ruins and my remaining siblings die every day. Those of us in your dogfights live longer than most. Dean would say 'life's a bitch, but at least you're breathing.'"

Sam exhales, not quite a laugh. "Yeah, that sounds like Dean."

"I'm alive," Castiel says. "It's a small, selfish thing, but I want to stay that way."

How is Sam supposed to respond to that? He frowns, eyebrows scrunching together. Of all the conversations he might have expected to have with Castiel, this isn't one. "Me and Dean, we'll take good care of you. I promise."

Castiel tips his head. He doesn't smile, not exactly, though the corners of his mouth lift. Sam isn't sure how to interpret his expression. "I'm not a goldfish, but thank you. I know you'll do your best." He shifts, lying down on the cot and pulling his wings in close around him, a clear dismissal. "Goodnight, Sam."

Sam goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas doesn't have much of a presence. Even Anna filled a room better than he does. It's not that he's physically small, he just feels that way, even though he stands almost nose to nose with Dean and the only reason anyone thinks Dean is short is because Sam's a fucking giant. 

Cas sits perched on the side of his cot in the mornings; hands tucked between his knees, toes pointed slightly in, wings spread behind him, feathers spilling over the edges of the aging cot's mattress. He tips his head when Dean enters and never so much as twitches in the direction of the door, which is good, because Dean forgets to lock it half the time.

Sometimes, Dean thinks that if he didn't have the proof of Cas' purchase locked away in a safe in the basement, he could forget Cas exists at all. In a way, it's a good thing. With Anna, he was always aware of the extra presence in the house, usually busy trying to get her to eat or move or something, her sickness an almost tangible thing that demanded his attention at every turn. As a child, with Michael, he couldn't crawl out from under the heavy weight of an archangel's gaze, no matter how hard he tried or how far he ran. So he revels in Cas' near non-existence, sitting against the wall just inside the cage with coffee in hand, watching Cas slowly flexing each of his limbs in turn.

The windows of the cage are boarded up from the outside, a hard-learned lesson from the Winchester family's early days tending angels. The only light in here comes from an old chandelier overhead, half it's bulbs burnt out and the brothers too broke to replace them with any kind of regularity. The ones that still light are caked in dust and cast weird, crooked shadows across the floor. It's in this half-light, his black wings nearly disappearing into shadow, that Cas preens. He's never used his wings for flight, but he tends to them all the same, plucking at the feathers with his fingers, smoothing the vanes with holy water that Dean is happy to supply for him in spades.

"You're really something, you know that?"

Cas hums and doesn't respond, meticulously straightening his feathers. He plucks one and drops it to the floor. It melts into nothing, one more ashen silhouette among the hundreds of others that stain the old hardwood and Dean pulls his finger through it, smearing it into something unrecognizable. If that bothers Cas, Dean can't tell, but he can feel Cas watching him while he draws meaningless shapes through the dust.

"You're always so quiet and obedient. Hell, until last week, I though maybe you couldn't fight at all, but that wasn't true, was it? What else are you hiding in that head of yours, huh?"

"Dean," Cas says, low.

Dean's head snaps up and Cas is staring at him in that eerie, unblinking way of his. Cas has been around long enough that Dean's learned to read his body language pretty well, and he can read the plea for freedom written across Cas' face plain as day. Tensing his shoulders and straightening his spine, Dean refuses to look at way, just this once--

He lasts all of ten seconds. Cas never flinches.

The coffee in his hand went cold a long time ago, so Dean sets it to one side and rubs his sleeves over his face. He works out reasons in his head for Cas to say, reasons why the fights are good things, why they should keep going, why they have to, but every reason he comes up with is weak. Empty. Saying "this is the only life I've ever known" seems pathetic. Saying "it's the family business" sounds like an excuse. Saying "we need the money" is greedy and, in light of their erratic and low winnings, not entirely true. In the end he says nothing.

Feathers rustle, the cot creaks, and Cas steps across the room, the footfalls of his bare feet louder and heavier than Dean thinks they should be. What little light there is from the chandelier vanishes, blacked out by the weight of Cas' wings curving over Dean's head.

"Dean," Cas says again, more emphatic this time. 

Dean lifts his head just in time for Cas to touch his forehead. He jerks away, instinct, and tries to ignore the way Cas frowns. "Only one more fight this round," he says, not sure which of them he's trying to reassure, "and then we get a break for a bit. We'll do some work on the house, Sam'll do that nerdy shit he loves doing with our budgeting and maybe I'll break a few laws and show you how to use a gun. That'll be fun, right?"

Cas tips his head to one side and spreads his wings. The left one blocks the door. Dean looks past the right wing to the boarded up window. Maybe he should rethink his early morning sit-in-the-cage-with-the-angel routine.

A floorboard upstairs creaks, heralding Sam's return to the waking world. Dean figures he has about twenty minutes before his brother is coherent enough to attempt navigating the stairs to the first floor. Twenty minutes until Sam comes down, sees Cas with Dean hemmed in against the wall with his wings decides angels are too dangerous to keep around after all and either sells him or shoots him.

He digs his heels into the flooring and presses a hand against Cas' shoulder. No pressure. He's never needed to exert much force, not with Anna and not with Cas. "C'mon, let me out so I can go make breakfast for you, me, and the beast upstairs."

Cas folds his wings, tucking them as close to his body as his shoulders will allow. He's still close, but there's enough space for Dean to ease out and stand up. "I always obey you," he says, his fingers a spiderweb-soft brush against Dean's jaw.

Dean freezes halfway to standing. Something about those words, of all the words Cas could have chosen, turn him cold. His mouth works soundlessly, brain struggling to catch up. Man, Cas might not pipe up often, but when he does, he's got this terrible habit of blindsiding Dean. "You don't—Cas, Sam and I aren't ever gonna ask you to—" No, he has to stop that line in its tracks. They would ask Cas to do something he doesn't want to. In fact, they probably already have, but Dean doesn't know. He doesn't know, because Cas never complains and Dean's been careful never to ask. He licks his lips, stalling for time. "Cas, what do you want?"

"Nothing," Cas says and rises. He turns away from Dean and peers up toward the chandelier, squinting at it like it's done him some kind of personal offense.

"Look, Cas. If you do want—need—something, just say the word, okay?" He catches himself too late. He's not supposed to ask angels what they want, his father instilled that in him early. They only ever ask for freedom. "I'd give you damn near anything, but I can't if I don't even know you need it."

"Dean." Cas ruffles his feathers, stretches his wings as far as the four walls will allow, sweeps them in close to his body again. "I want for nothing. _Si vales valeo._ "

"I don't know what that means," Dean protests. As usual, and to Dean's never-ending frustration, Cas chooses not to translate.

On the other side of the cage, Cas picks up an abandoned coffee cup and turns it over in his hands, as good a sign as any that the conversation is over. Dean throws his hands in the air and leaves, barely making it into the kitchen before Sam, hulking monster that he is in the mornings, arrives downstairs to check on things.

"Castiel still asleep?"

"Nah." Dean drops a pair of plates on the table, trying his damnedest not to grin like an asshole when Sam winces and failing miserably. "He woke up a while ago, so I took him some coffee."

Sam snorts, clearly unimpressed and grabs a glass of orange juice from Dean's hands before it ends up everywhere. "You mean you were sitting in there with him. Angels don't drink coffee."

Anna drank coffee. Sometimes Cas does, too. Sam relies too much on what books tell him, but Dean's wise enough to stay quiet. School's a sore point for them both. "All we have to do is get Cas bound and loaded up and we'll be all ready for tonight's bout," he says by way of changing the topic, and slaps his hands on the table. Sam winces but Dean ignores it—hey, not his fault his brother decided to do shots with a Djinn. "You get the warrior princess dressed for battle. I need a goddamn shower."

Sam waves in response, busy chugging the orange juice.

Upstairs, Dean indulges in the luxury of the hottest shower his skin can stand. Listen to Sam's bitching about fixing the plumbing in the house was worth it, even if it ate into a lot more of their winnings than either of them would have liked. Sponge baths and summer showers under the hose got them clean, but weren't remotely satisfying. Steam curls up and over a shower curtain that still reeks of freshly unpackaged plastic, the mirror's probably all fogged up, and Dean can just make out the sound of Sam yelling at him not to use up all the hot water, but he doesn't care. He worked for this little slice of heaven, and by God, he's going to bask in it until his fingers turn into raisins.

About half an hour in, the spray only just beginning to show hints of cooling off, something raps gently on the door. Dean startles, thinking at first that it's Cas, but Cas' wings would never fit up the narrow stairs and it turns out the first gentle rap is just a prelude to Sam trying to beat down the door with his fists.

"Dean, come on! You've been in there long enough and I need to brush my teeth!"

"Quit being such a whiny bitch," Dean gripes, but the water's fast going cold, so he sees no reason to stay in any longer.

Sam muscles his way inside the second Dean unlocks the door. He grabs the toothpaste and makes a face at the mangled tube. They're running low. "Castiel's ready to go, we just need to get him into the truck."

"I'll get him, you finish making yourself pretty." Dean grins, making his exit while Sam's too occupied with brushing his teeth to come up with a snappy retort.

Cas stands patiently in the open cage doorway. It's open, the perfect opportunity for an escape, but he's watching Dean come down the stairs instead. His fidgeting pulls at the inscribed handcuffs he wears, but it's the soft clink of boredom, not the high, frantic rattling of a bid for freedom. His wings fill the empty space behind him, vast and black, and they'll stay that way, relaxed and open, until he has to tuck them in to pass through the door, fold them tight against the truck bed to avoid an injury from a sudden gust.

There's no fight in Cas right now. There won't be for a few hours yet.

Dean grabs the truck keys off a side table, twirling them around his finger. "C'mon, cowboy. Let's get you loaded up."

Cas tips his head in response, eyebrows scruching together, but he doesn't ask Dean about the latest nickname. He quit doing that a while ago, probably resigned to tolerating Dean's oddities.

Loading Cas into the truck isn't really a matter of loading so much as it's a matter of dropping the tailgate and waiting for Cas to climb up and get settled. Maybe if they start winning fights, they'll shell out for one of those fancy bed caps, turn the back of the truck into something a little more comfortable and a little safer.

That's a pretty big if.

Cas lies down, stretching his wings until they bump against the wheel wells, bracing himself against the floor. He doesn't move again after that; not when Dean clips his cuffs to a hook, not when Sam comes outside to heft himself into the cab, not when the engine turns over and not they begin their long drive to the Roadhouse. Dean peers out the back window at him from time to time, but he mostly watches the road ahead, already considering the evening's lineup and how best to place his bets.

The truck grinds to a halt in front of the Roadhouse a couple hours later. Sam has to circle twice before he finds a spot close to the rear entrance and Dean glowers at the knot of people loitering near the back door. Hangers on, demon fuckers, irritating sons of bitches, every last one of them.

"Dude. Relax." Sam tugs the keys out of the ignition. "Cas is the one in the ring tonight, not you."

Dean rubs at his arms, looking for familiar faces in the gathering crowd. "Shut up and get us a tab going."

Sam rolls his eyes—Dean's going to make him drink a purple nurple for that—and goes.

There are a couple demons he recognizes straight away, one or two he's even been friendly with on a few occasions or, on even fewer occasions, more than just friendly. When they wave, he relaxes, responding in kind while he helps Cas out of the truck. One of them whistles when he walks Cas past them and toward the door, reaching out to grab a handful of feathers, and Dean smacks her hand away, casual. Easy. Comfortable in ways he isn't with most demons.

"Hands off the merchandise, hot stuff. Don't you have better things to do?"

Ruby makes a face somewhere between a smile and pout, and for all that she might be as much sneaky a son of a bitch as every other demon out there, she sure as hell has good taste in vessels. Wide hips, full mouth, perfect tits. The definition of walking wet dream. "Obviously," she says, turning her head to watch Sam walk into the building. She can watch Sam all she wants, so long as Dean gets to watch her in the meantime. "I just can't manage to pour enough shots into your brother to get him to do those things with _me_."

Dean keeps one eye on Cas, helps him fold his wings up tight to get through the narrow opening and goddammit, he wishes they'd widen these things. It's enough of a pain in the ass getting angels through regular sized doors. "Shots aren't gonna get him into bed with you, sweetheart, Sammy's got a liver of steel and the heart of a teenage girl."

It's cute the way Ruby folds her arms beneath her breasts and shifts her weight, hips canted toward Dean in open invitation. "What about your liver?"

"Maybe later," Dean says, not meaning it, and shuts the door in her face. Sure, he's fucked demons before, even fucked Ruby before, but tonight she's not even close to being on his list.

And Alistair? Even farther from it than Ruby.

If Ruby is the definition of a walking wet dream, then Alistair is the definition of...whatever the opposite of that is. Just walking into the back hall for inspections makes Dean's skin crawl. He gets that the inspections are important, understands what's at stake for the whole gig if even one angel's binding sigils start to wear, but he still wonders if it's necessary for Alistair, Creeplord of the Roadhouse and Head Pervert of all he Surveys to be the one doing them.

"Dean," Alistair purrs, right into his fucking _ear_.

Dean jumps, yanking away, bumping into Cas' wings and lets slip a high "Jesus!" before he gets a handle on his heart rate and his mouth again. It's like Alistair enjoys making Dean almost piss himself. _Fucker._ He tries to cover his discomfort by burying a hand in one of Cas' wings and guiding him toward a chair. Sooner they get this over with, the less time they spend near Alistair.

Alistair notices. Of course he notices. "Always in such a rush, Dean." He comes up close—too close—and slides a hand down Cas' back.

Dean tries to pretend he misses the way Cas starts breathing a little faster. As disgusting as Dean feels when Alistair touches him, it's got to be worse for an angel. Alistair, though, he seems like he enjoys angels' discomfort. He smiles, running his hands through Cas' feathers and down his chest, tucking his fingertips into the waistband of Cas' borrowed jeans, until Dean feels like he needs a shower.

"C'mon, man, he's clean." There's no sense in dragging out a completely pointless inspection.

"Now, Dean," Alistair chides, and oh Jesus, he's got a boner. That creepy _fucker_. "I trust you, you know I do. But I'm afraid I just can't trust angels the same. We wouldn't want any incidents, would we?"

"No, but c'mon, that was just--"

"I like to be thorough, Dean," Alistair says, smoothing his hands across Cas' thighs. Cas' eyes narrow just a fraction, just enough that Dean notices. "My reputation depends on it."

Dean grabs Cas by the arm and yanks him away from Alistair and his _way too touchy_ hands. Cas doesn't resist, fluttering his wings out just enough to keep his balance. "Yeah, I know. But he's clean. I know he's clean, you know he's clean. You gonna give him a pass or not?"

Obviously disappointed, Alistair waves them away. "Your angel is clean enough for now.. You should bring him back to me after his bout tonight. I can help you get the grime off his lovely wings. Inspections aren't my only calling, you know."

"No thanks," Dean mutters under his breath, guiding Cas down the maze of hallways and to the freight elevator.

Cas shudders once they're away from Alistair's leering face, and again when the elevator doors squeal closed behind them. The ride down is quiet, save for the low creaking of the cables and the sound of Cas' breathing. "Alistair is foul. More than most demons," he says, just before the elevator judders to a halt, doors squealing their way open again. He lifts his hands, peers at his tattoed wrists, but doesn't say anything else.

Dean pats Cas on the shoulder sympathetically and nudges him out into the holding area. "Win one for us tonight, willya?"

The doors close on Castiel's reply, so Dean misses it, but he's happy enough to imagine he heard Cas offer up his assent.

Sam, the good and loving brother that he is, has their tab going upstairs when Dean gets back on deck. "Bobby's not around tonight," he says by way of greeting, pushing a beer and a basket of fries in Dean's direction. "Pulled out of the bouts last minute. Crowley's throwing a fit. He had to rearrange most of the fights to make up for it. Lot of people were coming to see Lucifer in the ring."

Dean snorts, elbows braced against the bar. "Crowley'll live. Bobby say why he pulled out?"

"Dunno. He's been doing it more often though." The crowd starts up, closer to the ring. Sam stretches out, peering over the tops of people's heads, but it's too far away, even for his ridiculous height. "Think he'll retire?"

"With an archangel in his lap?" Dean shoves fries in his mouth and chews on them while he thinks about it. Bobby might be a cranky old bastard, but that doesn't make him stupid. He's not the kind of guy to pull out of something on a whim. "He's probably got his reasons. Maybe Karen came back."

"Dude." Sam just looks at him, face pinched. "Not cool."

Whatever.

Sam tries to change the subject, but Dean waves him off. He's got beer and whiskey to drink and a set of fights to watch, and he's been looking forward to this all week. There's nothing quite like watching a demon and a djinn pound the shit out of each other, even if word that Lucifer isn't fighting tonight is a little disappointing.

The rearranged bouts put the demon and the djinn up first, and by the time Dean weaves his way through the steadily growing crowd, the fight's already half over. He's got just enough time to put money on the djinn and just enough alcohol in his blood that he doesn't care too much when she loses. Sam catches his attention partway through the second fight, shows him the updated rosters. Crowley managed to pull in another angel, a name Dean's never seen before. When she comes out, blonde and pretty with a sour face and golden feathers, he puts money on her because hey, why the hell not? She fights well and more importantly, she wins. The vetala she's up against goes down after two rounds. It's a good fight and Dean's more than happy with the cash he's just pulled in, but she's no Lucifer and the crowd makes its anger known by chucking beer bottles at her head.

Four fights down, and with Lucifer off the rosters, that makes Cas' bout with the new girl on the circuit the prize fight. Crowley walks into the ring to start hyping it up and Dean follows Sam back to the bar for some "fresh libations."

Sam squints at him. "Where'd you learn the word 'libations'?"

"What? I read."

Sam frowns and opens his mouth like he's about to comment further, but Dean cuts him off by messily shoving fries into his brother's mouth. While Sam's busy wiping cheese and grease off his face, Dean grabs the roster and scans it for information on Cas' fight. "So this Eve chick he's up against. We know anything about her?"

Face finally clean, Sam shakes his head. "Won a couple fights, lost a couple. Her official stuff is pretty clean."

Promising. Good info at least. Dean takes a long pull off his beer, staring at the name until his eyes start to cross. Probably shouldn't hold the paper so close. "She's the angel killer, right?"

That comment earns him a laugh. "Yeah, just like Cas is a demon killer."

"Rumor mill is the most dangerous beast of them all." Dean pitches his voice up, yelling over the din. "Ain't that right, Crowley?"

Crowley flips him off without missing a beat, and continues with his speech as if Dean hadn't said a word. Dean snorts, finishing his drink and lifting his hand for another. "Most dangerous beast of them all and that asshole would know."

"His rumors have helped us out before, you know," Sam says, ducking his head when Ruby shows up with two fresh bottles in her hands. She winks at him and goes. Sam might have a pretty face—even Dean can admit that—but there are other customers with more cash tonight. Flirting with them's more important and much more profitable. "Eve probably isn't an angel killer, but I wouldn't be surprised if we have to set Castiel's wings tonight."

"And that's news how? Don't need Crowley to tell us that."

Sam shrugs, helpless. "Just keep an eye on him."

No point in dignifying that with a response; Dean always keeps an eye on Cas. Keeps an eye on him straight through the two remaining bouts before the prizefight. There's nothing out of the ordinary to pay attention to, just typical Cas flexing his wings every now and again, pulling them away from demons that get too close. Dean scans the holding area instead, looking for Cas' opponent. He finds her a few minutes before Cas' fight, an unassuming little thing, barefoot in a pale dress. Not exactly the scariest thing Dean's seen in the ring, but not the most helpless looking, either. Probably better to reserve final judgment until he actually sees her fight.

From the look of things, Cas has found her, too. The crowd howls through the last two fights, and despite the noise, he never takes his eyes off her. He doesn't even flinch when a few strays from the audience manage to stumble their way into the holding area and bang on the bars. Eve doesn't flinch either, peeking around the arena with the kind of idle curiosity Dean would expect from a spectator attending their first cage match.

Crowley shoos the clean-up crew out of the ring, and the way is cleared for Cas and Eve to enter. Dean leans over the partition, more curious about the fight now than he was half an hour ago. A cold glass bumps his elbow—Sam, coming to watch Cas' bout, Ruby tucked under his elbow.

"How do you think he'll do?"

"Dunno." Dean points toward Eve. "She's not much to look at. Not like that means much."

Sam grunts, busy drinking, and Ruby takes over his half of the conversation. "She doesn't look like an angel killer, does she?"

In the ring, Cas flaps his wings once, kicking up dust. Dean frowns. It's not like Cas to posture. "Only time I ever saw an angel go down in the ring, it was to a little thing like her. Besides, you've broken your fair share of them."

He means it as an insult, but Ruby glows with pride. Sam gets out a "Fair share—what?" and Dean tunes the two of them out. Let Ruby gloat to Sam about the angels she's put down or crippled. There are more important things for him to pay attention to than her twisted brand of flirting.

More important things like the way Cas has his wings pulled back, as if he's about to take flight. The way his shoulders hunch and his head is low, throat protected. Whatever threat Dean can't see in Eve, Cas sees clear as day, every inch of his body language defensive on a level Dean's never seen before. It makes him wonder just what Eve is, exactly. Dragon, maybe. He's heard rumors recently of one of those popping up on the circuit. Maybe a high-level demon, though he's never seen one of them in the ring instead of organizing like Crowley or managing fighters like Azazel.

One thing's certain, though. Cas is nervous. He's nervous and Dean might not know why, but it's enough to put him on edge, too.

He half-turns toward Sam and Ruby. "Sam, I think maybe we should--"

"Holy shit!" Ruby squeals, almost falling over the barrier when she lunges forward. Sam flings out a hand to keep her on the spectator's side of things. "Your bird can move!"

Dean snaps his attention back to the ring, and sure enough, in the seconds it took for him to say ten words to Sam, Cas has covered the full width of the arena to crowd into Eve's space, probably taking the one advantage he figures he has: size. Except Eve doesn't seem worried. She's smiling, some creepy, soft smile that makes it look almost like she feels sorry for Cas. She raises a hand and Dean's blood runs cold—Sam's probably right, they're going to have to set Cas' wings tonight—but then she does...nothing. Or at least, nothing aggressive. Or nothing obviously aggressive.

No. Instead Eve takes Cas' face in her hands and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Cas shudders, wings high and shaking, and Dean gets the terrifying idea that Cas isn't just letting her do it, but that he can't, physically _can't_ pull away. He can't see the look on Cas' face from this angle, but he can picture it, wide-eyed and flushed.

She lets go, walking smoothly away and back to the gates leading into the holding area.

Dean looks at Sam over the top of Ruby's head and from the look on Sam's face, it's clear he doesn't know what to make of it either.

"What the hell is she?" Dean asks, but his question is lost under the enraged roar of the crowd.

In the ring, Crowley nudges a stunned Cas back toward the gates. Dean shoves his way through the crowd, ignoring Sam's bewildered "What just happened?" in favor of getting to the freight elevator as fast as possible. He gets stopped once or twice by angry fans, but pushes past them, not caring how rude he might look. Caring about that shit is more Sam's deal anyway. Caring about Cas is Dean's.

The doors haven't even fully opened when Dean squeezes through them. "Cas!"

"Oh, keep your voice down." Crowley sounds mildly put out, which usually translates to enraged. That's never a good sign, but at least his irritation doesn't seem to be aimed at Dean tonight. He points to Cas, who's still off to one side, all attention on Eve. "Your bird is here and in one piece, much to my pocketbook's chagrin. Just be glad this is her fault, and not his."

"What'd she do?"

"I don't know. Ask him, he's the one who was in the ring with her." Crowley waves him past, tacit permission to collect Cas from the holding area.

When Dean approaches, Cas shifts, spreading his left wing just enough that Dean can duck under it and stand beside him. "What the hell happened out there?"

"I don't know," Cas admits, head tipped to one side. There's a faint smear of gray on his lower lip, some of Eve's lipstick or something, Dean doesn't know. Cas doesn't seem to notice it. "I suppose that counts as a loss."

Dean huffs and clips the shackles around Cas' wrists. He doesn't pay any attention to that, either. "More likely a win, since she threw the match. They might not like calling in your favor, but there's no way around it. She's got to forfeit. C'mon, let's get you out of here."

They leave Eve behind, and a few minutes later Sam leaves Ruby behind. Sam chatters on the ride home, speculating freely and sharing rumors he picked up. Dean listens with half an ear, his eyes on Cas and the way Cas frowns the whole ride back. He slides out of the truck bed the moment they're home and walks up to the house with his wings still held open, flight feathers spread wide, and Dean can't tell if it's because he's still on edge or if he's just basking in the open air.

Cas shakes himself when the shackles come off again. That, at least, is completely normal. Sam excuses him from holy water duties, the lazy asshole, so it's up to Dean to set Cas up for the night. He hands off the bowl and watches Cas drink, the gray smear disappearing without fanfare. No doubt, Cas will want another come morning, but for now they're done for the day with no injuries to treat beyond a few minor dings to their pride.

Not bad, all things considered. Bizarre prizefight aside, things could have gone a lot worse. Dean takes the bowl from Cas and puts it away, more than ready to bed down for the night.

"Dean." Cas' voice floats up the stairs, quiet enough that he can almost ignore it. "I was crafted for battle, not dogfights."

Almost.

Dean takes two deep breaths and stomps his way up the stairs. After the night they've had—after their conversation early in the morning—a line like that just seems unfair.

Fortunately, come morning, Cas doesn't seem inclined to repeat himself. Even better, with a couple weeks of downtime, they can afford to let Cas out to stretch his wings and his legs a little. Personally, Dean wishes they could do it all the time, but Sam's got all his book smarts telling him that angels get aggressive after a fight, so they play by the rules, even if Cas has never tested the limits of his cage beyond toying with the lock every now and again. It's almost like he doesn't care. 

Sam lets him out of the cage and Cas explores what little of the house he can get to without smacking his wings into the walls, wandering the living room in slow circles, picking at old newspapers and discarded books. He pokes at a toaster pastry with suspicion, his face clearly communicating his opinion of it as a meal, and Dean laughs.

"Y'know, I hear Gabriel eats a couple boxes of those a day," he says, once Sam is out of earshot.

Cas frowns, forehead wrinkling. "Gabriel is an idiot."

"Well-fed idiot."

"Angels don't need to eat, Dean." He shuffles his feet a little, flexing his toes rythmically.

Dean watches Cas dig his toes into the rug by the sink. Funny how angels and humans seem to enjoy a lot of the same things. "You drink the holy water we give you, though."

"You don't need alcohol to survive, but you drink it anyway," Cas points out. "Can't I drink something just because I like it?"

"So holy water is like angel beer?"

"The principle is similar. Dean."

Dean looks up and, oh, holy hell, that doesn't look right. Cas has gone pale, mouth slightly open, puzzlement written across his face.

"Something's wrong. I think Eve--"

He hits the deck before Dean can scramble to his feet.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam schools his face into a mask of calm the moment he hears Dean yelling downstairs. That mask gets harder to hold when he sees Dean in the kitchen, supporting Castiel's dead weight, but Dean needs someone to balance out his kneejerk panic. He manages. They carry Castiel into the cage together, Sam cataloging symptoms while they move and coming up blank on possible causes. He's not even completely convinced angels can get sick. Anael hadn't grown ill so much as she'd just stopped after a while.

"Did he say anything?"

"Not really?" Dean's trying not to pace, Sam can see the poorly hidden tension across his shoulders. "Said something was wrong and was down a second past that. I don't know, Sam, what does it even matter what he said or didn't say?"

Sam holds out a hand, palm flat and down. Calming. "I'm just asking. Anael seemed like she knew something was about to happen, so I thought maybe Castiel--"

"No. No, it's not even close to the same thing. It's not, but I--I can't do this, Sam. Not again," Dean says and walks out.

"I'll stay with him," Sam calls after Dean's retreating back. Like he has a choice. Leaving Castiel alone isn't an option. The kitchen door slams, the only response Sam gets. Not a surprise.

Castiel moans and shivers, wings twitching spasmodically on the floor, his fingers tangled up in the bedding spread across aging hardwood. Sam drops to his knees, grabs a towel and soaks it in chilled water before he drapes it over Castiel's back, carefully arranging the material to lie between his wings. Angel or not, damp feathers reek.

Over the next few hours, Sam eases into a sort of routine. He reads for a while, lying on the floor beside Castiel and checks the towels every ten minutes, replacing them when he thinks they've gotten too dry or too warm to do any good. Castiel's breathing is slow and ragged. He occasionally gasps when Sam takes too long to change a towel and the sudden cool and wet startles him briefly awake. Dean's left the house, but he's still around; Sam can hear him taking potshots at cans outside, which is as good a way to blow off steam as any.

By the time the sun starts its downward arc, Castiel looks marginally better than he did earlier that morning. Even to Sam's untrained eyes, it looks like he's breathing easier and he's lost some of the pallid sheen than had Dean so freaked out. Sam lays a hand across his forehead to judge his temperature and it’s endearing, the way Castiel tips his head against Sam’s hand, rubbing against the touch like some overgrown cat. The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks up; he indulges his amusement and his relief, carding his fingers gently through Castiel’s hair.

Castiel murmurs something so low and soft Sam can barely make it out, but the shape of the word is unmistakable. “Dean.”

Sam yanks his hand away, pressing his lips into a thin line. It’s stupid; Cas is barely awake and running a fever that would kill a human, he’s probably not even aware he’s said anything. Dean’s name still burns in Sam’s ears, igniting a jealousy he didn’t even know he had. It isn't fair, the way they always like Dean better, not when Sam does just as much for them. Pulling away from Castiel when he actually needs someone around isn’t fair, but Sam does it anyway, pushing himself up and walking out of the cage.

Outside, another can bangs noisily to the ground when Dean's shot aims true. He's been shooting on and off for a couple hours, probably going through every single gun they have in their arsenal for no reason other than that he can and Sam should have put an end to it an hour ago because ammo isn't cheap and cleaning the guns is going to be a pain in the ass, but he can't muster up the energy to stop Dean. Not right now. They both need their stress relief, so Sam leaves Dean to the guns and keeps to himself in the kitchen, drinking flat beer and psyching himself up to go back into the cage with an angel that likes Dean more than it does him.

Just awesome.

Ten minutes later, Dean comes in through the back door, just as haggard as when he went outside and at least twice as sweaty.

"Cas?"

Sam shrugs. "He's breathing better than he was. Not sure how much of an improvement that is, though."

"What are we supposed to do, Sam?" Dean grabs a beer from the counter and opens it, gesturing broadly, knocking the cap onto the linoleum and spilling foam over his hand. "I didn't even know angels could get sick. How do we fix something that isn't supposed to happen in the first place?"

"I can't answer that," Sam says, grabbing the bottle before any more liquid ends up on the floor. Dean protests and retrieves another. "I don't know, Dean, maybe angels do this more than anyone knows, they just get over it before we notice. They've got weird healing powers anyway, right? He's still breathing, he's still moving, he's still making noise. At the worst, that's better than Anael was at the end."

The only sound Dean makes in response to that is a faint huff that Sam doesn't know how to interpret. Anger, despair, fear. It could be anything or nothing. "I'm gonna sit with him for a while," he says, and leaves, beer forgotten on the counter. 

Sam sighs and puts the bottle in the refrigerator. It's going to go flat and Dean probably won't drink it once it does, but it seems better than pouring it down the drain. He retreats upstairs and isn't sure when he falls asleep, but it's near dawn when Dean shakes him awake.

"We've got a problem."

Which, Jesus, is an understatement. Castiel looks much worse than when Sam left him. He flaps his wings, joints thumping against the ground, feathers making wet noises when they slap the floor. Sam edges around them carefully to join Dean near his head.

Dean crouches and tucks his fingers under Castiel's jaw, tipping his head to one side. "Look. You ever seen that before?"

Sam's seen a lot of things over the years, some weirder than others, most of them just routine. He's never seen anyone's eyes light up from the inside like this, angel, human, or anything else.

"Sam? Sam!"

Sam shakes himself. "I think we're out of our depth here, Dean. This isn't anything I've seen before or read about or, hell, heard about. This is completely different from the way things went with Anael."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Dean sounds sour, plucking at loose feathers in Castiel's wings.

"We're out of our depth," Sam says again. They were out of their depth the moment Castiel dropped, and Sam knows it, but he'd been hoping Castiel would be better after a night of rest. That's usually how things go with him. A couple hours of 'is he gonna be okay' and then he is. He always is.

Make that usually is.

Sam rubs his face, straightening up. "Let's ask Bobby. Maybe he'll know something."

"Ellen's closer."

"Ellen doesn't put Gabriel in the ring! She doesn't even go to the fights. She's not going to know anything we don't already. Bobby's been around longer than Ellen has, he knows what he's talking about. Besides, maybe Lucifer will play nice and help us out."

"How much did you drink?" Dean shakes his head, leaving Castiel's feathers alone for now. He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands up. "Okay. Okay, we get him in the truck and we haul ass to Bobby's. God knows he owes us."

Fair enough. "I'll bring the truck around," Sam says and runs outside.

Sam doesn't know what Dean's done in the ten minutes he takes to get the truck, but when he comes back inside, Castiel is up on his feet, if wobbly and leaning heavily against Dean's shoulder. Even though his eyes are shut tight, Sam can still see light flickering behind his eyelids. Jesus. Sam braces himself on Castiel's other side, and they start the slow process out of the house. They give Castiel a hand up into the truck bed. Despite the fever and closed eyes, he seems to be navigating okay and he manages to fold his wings tightly against himself without outside help.

"I'll drive," Dean says, which is fair. He knows the path to Bobby's better than Sam does. "You hang tight with him and bang on the window if he gets worse."

"Considering someone replaced his eyes with LEDs, what exactly qualifies as worse?" 

Reasonable question, bad time for it. Dean yanks the door of the cab open and climbs in, almost slamming the door closed on his own foot. Right. Considering Dean's mental state, maybe having him drive isn't a good idea after all, except Sam doesn't want to get his head bitten off for bringing that up and finding help for Castiel is more important than Dean's temper anyway.

Thank God, the drive to Bobby's isn't more than an hour or so. It isn't cold out, but the wind coming over the truck cab makes Sam shiver. Beside him, Castiel pulls his wings in tighter and murmurs something Sam can't make out over the rushing sound in his ears. He tries to read the small movements of Castiel's mouth and can't, finally giving up the effort when he starts feeling a little carsick.

Every bump in the road jostles them. Dean hits a pothole and the truck rattles badly enough that Castiel's eyes flicker open, just for a second, so bright that Sam flinches and tears up. It hurts his eyes, looking at that. Nothing living should be lit up from the inside like that. It's a little frightening.

The past day as a whole has been a little frightening.

The truck pulls into Bobby's scrapyard a little less than an hour later, Dean's nervous lead-foot helping them cover ground faster than usual. It jolts over the uneven ground and Castiel groans, a clear sound of protest that Sam finds himself mirroring. Riding in the back is a miserable thing on a good day. Riding in the back while running a fever is several times worse.

Dean throws the truck into park. It protests with a grating noise and shudders when it's turned off. "You okay back there, Sammy?"

Bruised. Pride marginally dinged after a bump that left him momentarily airborne. But yes, fine. "You should probably worry more about Castiel than me right now," he says. Diplomatic. They both know who has the bulk of Dean's attention. Asking how Sam is doing is a familiar nicety.

"I'll get him out, you get Bobby."

Sam wriggles out of the back, thankful to be done with the ride. "Make sure he keeps his eyes closed."

Bobby must have some kind of psychic powers he never told Sam about, because he's got the door open before Sam's made it all the way onto the porch. It's a neat trick. "Heard that truck of yours coming a mile away, boy. You've got a belt going that needs to be replaced."

Sam grins and steps in close, letting Bobby wrap him in a tight hug. "It's good to see you, too, Bobby."

"What brings you boys here this early in the godforsaken morning, anyway? You in trouble?"

There's a thump near the truck. Sam turns and sees Dean helping Castiel get back to his feet. He's still in poor shape, but he definitely looks better than he did last night, Lite-Brite eyes aside. "Something's wrong with Castiel. I'd say he's sick like Anael was except this isn't anything like what she went through. This is different." He gestures toward his face. "His eyes are starting to glow. Like flashlights. You ever seen that before?"

Bobby frowns, pulling at the bill of his baseball cap. "Can't say I have. Bring him inside and I'll take a look. Might be something in my library that helps you out."

Dean pulls up with a breathless "Hey, Bobby," and Bobby gets out of the way to usher the three of them inside. Sam helps his brother get Castiel settled somewhat comfortably on the floor in the library while Bobby vanishes into the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with drinks for all of them. They settle into quiet for a while, Dean by Castiel's side, Sam and Bobby with their noses in books. Every now and again, Sam pipes up with a question and Bobby answers as best he can, but hours later, they're forced to admit defeat.

"I don't get it." Sam cracks open a new bottle of beer, tossing his book carelessly to one side. "All this information and there's nothing. Angels can kill other angels, non-angels can kill them if use the right method or weapons, but there's nothing about sicknesses. We don't even know what they eat!"

"They eat whatever they want," Bobby grumbles from under his hat.

"But they don't have to, that's the point. They don't eat, they don't drink, I've only seen one or two of them fade like Anael did, and that didn't really seem like an illness of any kind."

Dean pipes up. "It was like she just quit. Like she started a shutdown sequence that you couldn't stop once it got going."

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat, surprised to hear Dean talking about Anael so openly.

"And a shutdown sequence ain't what we're looking at here, I can tell you two that much." Bobby pushes out of his chair and approaches Castiel, tipping his head this way and that. Castiel grunts, sounding vaguely annoyed, but lets it happen. "Anything out of the ordinary happen? Someone hit him with holy oil, a demon get its claws in him, anything like that?"

That has to be the easiest question to answer that Bobby's ever asked them.

"He had a weird fight the other day," Dean starts.

"Angel-killer," Sam says over top of him. "That's what they called her. You think this is what they meant?"

"Hold on, angel-killer? Your boy went up against Eve?"

Sam watches Bobby press his lips together, puff out his cheeks, let out a breath slowly. "When you pulled out of the bouts last time, was it because of her?"

"What? No, I just couldn't get Lucy out of his damn cage. But I heard the rumors about her. Heard the stories. Mostly I heard she's toxic to anything she touches. Her own handler won't go near her without some kind of protection. Seems stupid for Azazel to put anything on the rosters that forfeits as often as she does, though. He's usually smarter than that." Bobby crouches down, touching his fingertips gently to Castiel's eyelids. "Come on, feathers, let's get a good look at you."

"No!" Castiel snaps his wings out and scoots several inches back. Hidden from view, Dean grunts. Sam narrowly avoids getting hit in the face himself.

"Motherfucker." Dean slides around Castiel's now sagging wing, a hand covering his nose.

Bobby rocks back on his heels, hands to himself. "Get some ice from the kitchen before you bleed all over my carpet, boy."

"Your carpet is shit," Dean says, but he obeys.

Sam stays where he is, one hand in the air, hovering near Castiel's knee. "I caught a glimpse of them earlier. It was like looking at the sun, Bobby. Really, painfully bright. You think it's related?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Bobby heads back to his desk and opens a drawer. The contents bang and rattle for a few seconds before he pulls out a set of keys. "I ain't a doctor and I ain't equipped to diagnose or treat anything without metal moving parts. His kin downstairs, though, maybe he can help."

"Whoa, hang on." As ever, Dean has imperfect timing. He also has an obviously blood nose. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Last time we were over here, he was trying to take off your head!"

"Don't matter," Bobby says, pointing over Sam's shoulder. "Your bird's interested and this is about the only option you've got left."

Sam turns and sure enough, Castiel is using Bobby's couch as leverage to get to his feet. He reaches out, but even with his eyes closed, Castiel manages to avoid Sam's touch. "Cas--"

"Please." Castiel's voice is shaky. Tired. "Take me to him."

"Cas, if he hurts you..."

"Eve's influence is already hurting me. Lucifer isn't going to make it any worse."

"Yeah, but--"

" _Dean._ " And just like that Dean shuts his mouth. Even Sam has to admit it's a neat trick.

"Alright, girls." Bobby tosses the keys to Sam. "Get your asses downstairs. And Sam, keep your fool brother from going in the cage this time, will you?"

Sam musters up a grin for the attempt at humor and heads for the basement door, Castiel and Dean close behind. The first bang from downstairs comes the moment the key is in the lock, and Sam can tell Lucifer's already working himself into a lather. He starts cursing them in an ancient language, and Sam doesn't need to speak it to get the gist of what he's saying. The closer they get to the cage, the quieter Lucifer gets. Less venom, more coiled threat.

"I still don't know how I feel about this, Sam."

"Me neither, but Bobby's right. It's not like we've got much of a choice." He's interrupted by the sound of violent wing beats coming from inside the cage. "You think he can help you out, Cas?"

"I think it's a question of whether or not he will," Castiel says, weary.

Dean frowns. That's obviously not the reassurance he was hoping for either.

"Moment of truth?" Sam picks up the carved iron rod Bobby keeps near the door and hopes it'll be enough of a deterrent if Lucifer decides he wants out. Which, from the sound of him snarling at them in French from behind the door, he does.

Castiel pushes away from Dean and straightens up, though Sam can see how much effort it takes him to do so. He spreads his wings and Sam recognizes it as an attempt to look bigger.

Dean nods to Sam. "Hold on to your hats, boys and girls."

Sam fits the key in the lock and opens the heavy iron door, pulling until it starts moving on its rollers. Lucifer's wings beat the walls to either side of the opening and he spits something at Sam that Sam thinks might be commentary on the size of his dick. It's venomous and intended as a distraction from the way Lucifer moves forward into the doorway, shoulders tight. He's smaller than Sam, but he's always felt _bigger_ , like there's more of him, and Sam is so very thankful for the sigils painting the walls that slow him down and prevent him from just walking out.

Which is exactly why it's such a shock when Lucifer stops cold. He even shuts his mouth, tipping his head to the side, and pulls his wings in. "Castiel."

"Hello, Lucifer," Castiel responds.

Sam lets out a breath. He's pretty sure they've just dodged a bullet.

Lucifer snaps his wings out and yanks them back into place quickly, the movement sending brightly colored feathers scattering. One of them lands near Sam's foot and fizzles audibly before it melts into ash. "I can help him," he says to Dean. "Let him in."

"I'm coming in with him, asshole."

"Dean! Dude, no!"

"You should listen to your brother. He's smarter than you are." Lucifer backing Sam up is a surprise. Sam isn't sure how he feels about it. "This is an angels only club. No humans allowed."

Castiel pulls away from Dean and walks toward the cage. Sam nudges his shoulder gently to guide him toward the door, and when he's close enough, Lucifer reaches out and takes him by the hand. Once Castiel is inside, Sam puts his shoulder against the door and rolls it closed. He half hears Lucifer say "open your eyes" and just before the door shuts completely, there's a flare of bright, white light.

"I don't like this," Dean says, just before Lucifer starts _singing_. "I don't like this and I don't like him. And I sure as hell don't like whatever it is he's doing in there."

Sam listens close for a moment. "I think that's Stairway to Heaven."

"Really? It's not enough he's got Cas locked in there with him, he's got to butcher one of my favorite songs, too?"

"Okay, c'mon." Sam spreads his arms wide and ushers Dean back toward the basement steps. "Lucifer says he can help and Cas seems to agree with him. I don't like it either, but they know what they're doing."

"So they say."

"Dude, you haven't slept all night, have you?"

"Get some coffee in me and I'll be fine. I'm not taking so much as a catnap while Cas is in there with that bastard."

Bobby meets them at the top of the stairs with pillows and blankets in hand. "You're sleeping, boy."

"Oh, come on, not you, too!" Dean shoots Sam a mutinous look—as if it's Sam's fault that Bobby keeps an eye on Dean—but he takes the blankets and marches over to the couch. Sam was right, Dean's exhausted. He gets the pillow down and the blanket half draped over him before his whole body sags, sleep taking over.

"Your fool brother's liable to kill himself with worry at this rate," Bobby says softly and guides Sam into the kitchen for a drink. "He ever gonna start living for himself instead of everyone else?"

Sam ducks his head, looking at the beer in his hands as if it can answer that question for him. "Probably not, but if he has to live for something, Cas and the fights aren't the worst option out there, I guess."

"Wasn't a good option for your daddy or your mother, God rest their souls."

"Accidents happen. They trusted Michael more than they should have, that's all."

Bobby grunts and swirls his beer. They lapse into quiet for a long while, Sam watching the sunrise, Bobby picking his nails, and Dean in the next room, snoring. The baby monitor Bobby uses to keep an ear on Lucifer crackles to life once or twice, but the only sound that comes from it is the sound of Lucifer's voice, low and rhythmic.

"Aramaic."

"Sorry, what?"

"What Lucy's saying right now. It's Aramaic." Bobby takes off his hat and rests his nearly empty bottle against his forehead. "He likes a lot of old languages, but he doesn't bust that one out too often. Seems like it's a special occasion kind of thing."

"Castiel likes Latin. He's been teaching Dean, though to be honest, I'm not sure how much Dean's picking up."

"More than you think, I'll bet. That brother of yours ain't stupid, no matter how hard your daddy tried to convince him otherwise. Not Dean's fault his smarts come from reading people instead of books."

He might know Bobby means well, but it doesn't mean Sam likes hearing it. "The angels always like him better. Half the demons we work with do, too. It's like they're drawn to him or something."

"Hell, boy, you jealous?"

"Bobby, no!"

One of Bobby's eyebrows lifts.

"No, I mean--"

The other.

"I don't know, Bobby. They open up to him and meanwhile I'm chopped liver. Well, except for Ruby. Pretty sure she likes me better than she likes him, but Dean, man, he moves through the crowds like he belongs in them. Teach him some fancy language and he could probably rival Crowley for speeches. People listen to Dean." Sam wilts. "I guess maybe I am a little jealous."

"Be surprised if you weren't," Bobby says gently. "It's all right. Lot of people been jealous of your brother and I'll bet he's been jealous of a lot of people in his own time. Let him play to his strengths and you play to yours. Keep him from going overboard when he's working the crowd."

"Keep him from going overboard with the gambling, you mean." Sam grins.

"That, too," Bobby says with a laugh.

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam rubs at his eyes. He might have gotten more sleep than Dean, but he's still tired and he's starting to feel the bumps and bruises from their rocky trip up. "I'm gonna crash in the spare bedroom for a while, if it's okay with you. Get some rest."

It's okay with Bobby. Of course it's okay with Bobby. He's never refused them anything he could reasonably give.

He sleeps for a few hours. Dean stumbles in around noon, looking for clean towels so he can take a shower. Sam flaps a hand in what he thinks is the general direction of the things Bobby laid out for them and shoves his face back into the pillows. He finally gets up again in late afternoon, feeling vaguely hungover from his too-long nap. From the look of things, Dean isn't feeling much better.

"No word from downstairs," he says, and goes back to nursing a glass of whiskey. Nothing Sam tries gets him to speak up again.

Around midnight, Sam decides he wants to go down and take a look for himself. The cage is quiet at the moment, no banging or the sound of wingbeats or any of the things he associates with an angelic presence obscured by a closed door. He gets as far as putting his hand on the latch when something stops him. There _is_ a faint noise on the other side, but he can't quite make it out. It makes him think of a distant radio, fuzzy and indistinct.

It takes him longer than he'd like to admit to figure out that the quiet noise he can hear is Castiel chanting, Lucifer's voice a low counterpoint.

Early the next morning, there's a series of loud bangs from the cage, because Lucifer isn't exactly one for subtlety. Or for letting people sleep in. Dean runs down the stairs, almost missing the bottom two in his haste. Sam follows more slowly, still drowsy.

"Moment of truth," Dean says, throwing the locks.

Sam tries not to think about the fact that he said the same thing only a day and a half ago.

The door creaks and slides open and Lucifer lunges forward into the space, teeth bared. "You could have killed him. Destroyed him with your idiocy, you half-formed mammals playing at your stupid war games!"

Dean stumbles back, eyes wide. Sam grabs him by the arm and pulls him away from the door. They've bullied Lucifer back into his cage before, but he wasn't angry with them that time. He's angry now, ripping a handful of feathers out of his own wings to throw at their faces. Sam ducks, covering his head and Dean raises his arm to protect himself the same way, but the expected hiss of dissolving feathers never comes. When Sam takes a chance and peeks at the cage again, he can't see anything but Lucifer's bare feet, the rest of him hidden behind a curtain of black.

"They brought me here. They brought me to help, to you," Castiel says evenly. "Yes, they've made their mistakes. We all have. But they're learning."

As far as Sam can see, Castiel's only mistake was to somehow end up on the losing side of a war. He's not convinced imprisonment or slavery are appropriate punishments for that. They need money, they can't pull out of the fights, not right now, but what they're doing isn't sitting right with Sam anymore. Hasn't quite sat right for a while, even if he couldn't put his finger on exactly why until just now. He'd be willing to put money on Dean feeling the same way.

He doesn't know what to do about it yet, but he does know this: Castiel is way too good for the shit humanity has put him through. For the shit Sam and Dean have put him through.

After a moment, Lucifer responds in a language Sam doesn't recognize. Sam can feel his shoulders tightening with every second that passes, and beside him, Dean is a tense, anxious shape hidden in the basement's poor lighting. It feels like Cas and Lucifer stay deadlocked for minutes. It's probably only a few seconds. Finally Lucifer backs off and Castiel tucks his wing back in close to his body. Dean waits until Castiel's wings are clear after his slow walk out of the cage before even going back toward the door again. Lucifer snarls at them one last time but behaves himself otherwise.

"Dean. Sam." Cas looks like hell on toast, the bags under his eyes darker than usual, but he's up, standing without support and without wobbling. His eyes have even stopped doing their flashlight impression.

Sam counts it as a win. "Hey, Cas. You're looking better."

"Eve's poison was difficult to purge from my system. The presence of an archangel helped me immensely. We owe my brother and Bobby a great deal."

"We already owe Bobby more than we'll ever pay him back for," Dean says. He touches Cas on the shoulder, like he just needs to reassure himself that Cas really is okay. "Come on. Let's haul our asses home, okay?"

Castiel murmurs his assent and lets Dean nudge him toward the stairs. Sam stays long enough to check the locks before he follows. Lucifer, tucked securely in his cage, doesn't say a word, though the air stays thick with his resentment, long after the Winchesters leave.


	4. Chapter 4

They give him time off. Those are the exact words Dean uses, in fact. "We're gonna give you some time off," he says, as though most of Castiel's time isn't exactly that.

He spends a day pacing back and forth inside his cage, restless. Even if he felt inclined to try and break out, there are sigils painted over the window, along the door frame, tattooed in rings around his wrists. He knows it wouldn't be impossible to get out, but it would be a pointless waste of energy. Why rip the house down to its very foundations, exhausting himself in the process, when he can simply rap his knuckles on the barred door and wait for one of the brothers to respond.

Dean answers his summons first today, wiping his hands on a dish cloth. "Hey, Cas. Need something?"

"Fresh air." Dean's face closes off, an odd, pinched expression Castiel has learned to associate with worry. He knows its source and finds it ridiculous. "Your fear is misplaced. If Eve and her poison could not kill me, I sincerely doubt ragweed pollen will. Open the door."

For a moment, it doesn't look as though Dean intends to comply, but Cas knows better. He knows that if he's patient and if he keeps eye contact, Dean will eventually relent. It's really remarkable how easy it can be to manipulate him.

Cas tries not to do it too often.

He counts the seconds until Dean looks away—three today, he's getting better at maintaining eye contact—and ruffles his wings impatiently. Dean must take that as a cue to do what Castiel asks; he drops the towel on a nearby chair and pulls his keys off his belt to let Cas out. 

After a brief delay to squeeze his wings through the door, Cas is finally relatively free. His cage is somewhat smaller than the living room, but it's also sparsely furnished. In the main part of the house, he has to navigate his way around the couch, the coffee table, and other odds and ends. He is always aware of where his wings are in space, cannot be unaware of it, but they are large and cumbersome in ways his Grace was never meant to be. Bumping into things occasionally is inevitable.

"Jesus, Cas, careful," Dean says after the second stack of papers flutters to the floor. He sounds faintly exasperated. "Come on, let's go outside before those get any more messed up and Sam skins me for letting you scatter his shit."

"If Sam wanted his things to stay in order, he should have put them away instead of leaving them on the coffee table," Cas says mildly, following Dean out the side door and into the yard. He stretches his wings back and away from his body and lifts his arms over his head, holding the stretch until his muscles start to protest. The sun warms his feathers and seeps comfortably under his skin.

_This_ is time off, not a day spent inside a room with a locked door and boarded up windows. It could still be better.

"Dean." Cas turns quickly and manages to catch a glimpse of Dean's pinked cheeks before Dean turns his head away. He ruffles his feathers in amusement and continues. "I'd like to do something."

"Do something?"

"Yes. Not long ago, you said you would teach me how to shoot a gun. I'd like to learn, if you're still willing."

This is clearly the perfect thing to have said, because Dean lights up like...like a Christmas tree. Yes, that sounds like the right turn of phrase.

"That's pretty illegal, y'know."

"So you've said."

If Castiel had to compare Dean to something at the moment, he might choose a cupid. Like them, Dean is eager to please and delighted by the prospect of making someone happy. With Castiel's Grace mangled and forced into reality as it is, he's unable to look directly at Dean's soul, but he imagines it's lit up with joy and curiosity and no small amount of love.

Humanity is rotten and broken, but at least these two brothers are not monsters.

Dean spends the better part of an hour showing Cas how to take a gun apart for cleaning and how to put it back together again. The process is simple enough, though Castiel marvels--not for the first time--at how such apparently basic pieces such as springs and levers can interact in complex ways. He masters the art of disassembly and assembly with minor coaching from Dean and assumes that the process of shooting will be much the same.

It isn't.

Each firearm feels slightly different in his hands and none of them is the blade he's long been accustomed to using. Compensating for the shotgun's recoil is easy, like relaxing into a blow, but the semi-automatic is too light. It feels like nothing in his hand. He prefers the heavier weight of the shotgun but ultimately dislikes both.

The sun is at its peak by the time Dean announces that they're finished. "Maybe you can do this all day, Cas, but my hands are starting to go numb."

"Perhaps there's something else I can do for a while." Cas looks toward Sam, sitting in the back of the truck where he's been watching them for the past hour or so. Sam lifts his hand and waves, gesturing toward the front of the old pickup and beckoning for Cas to come join him. Curious, he gives the shotgun back to Dean and goes to Sam.

Sam hops out of the truck bed and guides Cas around to the front. "If you're done breaking the law with my brother, you want to learn how to check fluids in a car? Promise you this isn't illegal."

"I don't really care if something is illegal or not, Sam. Your laws are human laws. They don't apply to me."

Sam grimaces but says nothing, and Castiel assumes that whatever misstep he made in the conversation was minor. He moves on, carefully arranging his wings in a vain attempt to keep them out of Sam's way.

One by one, Sam points out the fluid sticks under the hood. Oil, transmission fluid, brake fluid. Castiel notices the windshield cleaner fluid is empty, and Sam shows him how to open the tank and refill it. The process feels a little like an act of creation and Cas indulges in it, fascinated by the inner workings of the truck.

Dean appears to one side after a while, watching Cas work. "Oil in this thing needs changing. Too bad your wings won't fit under the car, or I'd show you how that works, too."

Cas steps back from the truck and pulls one wing around his shoulder. It doesn't want to bend that way, and the movement hurts. "If I ever find myself in the position of needing to change the oil in a vehicle, Dean, I know where to find auto shops in the phone book."

That is unquestionably the right thing to say. Sam and Dean both laugh, some of the weariness and worry lifting from their bodies when they do. Sam rubs a dirty hand over his cheek, leaving a smear of grease behind; Dean pats Cas on the shoulder.

"We'll get you a Triple-A subscription someday, just in case you need one on the road and don't have a phone book handy."

The name Triple-A has no meaning to Cas. It seems easiest to nod in agreement.

They continue work on the car into the evening, the brothers showing Cas every mechanical detail they reasonably can. Dean tells Cas about their plan to get a cap for the truck bed as soon as they can so Cas won't have to keep his wings uncomfortably tight against himself on long drives anymore. Castiel decides not to point out that the small space would still require a certain measure of discomfort on his part. He appreciates the attempts Dean and Sam make at helping him feel better even when they're unnecessary or fruitless and attempts to return the effort in kind when he can.

"What happened to your parents?"

It doesn't always go well.

"They died," Dean snaps at him. "It's not that hard to figure out."

Cas frowns. He's noticed the way Dean grows upset when Sam tries to talk about family too long, though it's rare to see Dean react with any real measure of anger. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression that it often brings comfort to talk about loved ones."

Sam cuts in before Dean can say anything else, throwing a towel at him to shut him up. "As long as you're not Dean, it does. Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"It seemed like the appropriate time to ask," Castiel says, which is as close as he comes to admitting he's been curious for a long time. To admitting he's been listening attentively to the things the brothers say and carefully observing the things they don't. "How did they die?"

Dean grumbles and sits in a chair, arms crossed. He gives off the air of an angry cat, and Castiel ruffles his feathers in faint amusement before he can stop himself. Now is not the time to be entertained.

"There was an accident a few years back, when I was still in school," Sam says, ignoring the dark look on Dean's face. "I don't know all the details, but the reports said Michael attacked Mom and Dad while they were driving and things just went downhill from there."

"Literally," Dean interjects. Sour.

Castiel frowns and steps closer to the chair, bumps Dean's shoulder gently with the leading edge of his wing. Dean sinks further into the chair and uncrosses his arms, some of the tension bleeding out of his frame. Good.

"Cops said it was over pretty quick at least. Doesn't really help much, but it's better than if they'd suffered." Sam explains the story with a sort of detachment. Castiel remembers hearing Sam reference his time at boarding school more than once and wonders if that explains the distance that sometimes crops up between Sam and his family. He doesn't ask.

"I'm sorry," he says instead.

Sam is visibly surprised when Dean beats him to the punch and responds to Cas first. "It's okay. It was a long time ago. Don't worry about it all right?"

Castiel isn't worried—what has happened in the past is in the past, generally speaking—but he nods and lets Dean think he feels reassured by the forgiveness. It seems like the right kind of response, and it brings Dean some measure of peace, as well. The Winchesters are imperfect at best, but the longer he observes them and their clumsy attempts at compassion, the more affection he feels for them, despite their line of work. They're still learning kindness. He'd like to do what he can to speed the process and being kind to them seems the best way to accomplish that.

Only a day later, Dean and Sam start arguing about money again. Cas has heard it before and as expected, a day past that, he climbs into the back of the old truck. Dean apologizes, clearly still worried about Cas in the aftermath of Eve. His fear isn't unwarranted; Lucifer helped Castiel purge the worst of the poison from his system, but the rest of it lingers, and he knows he'll be somewhat weakened until it's gone.

He suffers Alistair's too-intimate inspection with disdain and disgust that Dean mistakes, again, for fear.

It isn't. Alistair is very lucky that Castiel's tattoos have yet to fade.

For how few fighters are lined up, he's surprised by the crowds. It isn't until he feels a familiar pull from across the holding area that he realizes the reason. Of course. They've come to see Lucifer. Lucifer who sits atop a stack of boxes, higher than anyone else in the holding area, wings gently aloft for everyone to see.

As if anyone could miss something that bright. Next to Lucifer, Castiel feels plain. He expects most do.

He watches the fights with a growing sense of boredom. A werewolf against a djinn. Two demons who are drunk and clearly hold grudges against one another. A changeling that only cries until its opponent snaps its neck.

Castiel doesn't feel pity for it, not exactly, but it's death still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Monster though it might have been, it was also a child, and had no place in the ring. Whoever put it there is just as much a monster as it was. Clearly, the crowd agrees, and the changeling's owner, in tears, argues with Crowley while cleaners remove the body and rake the sand smooth. Castiel watches for a moment before turning back to the ring.

The Roadhouse is packed by now, easily two hundred people squeezed into the building, all there to see the prizefight—the prizefight between himself and Lucifer, Castiel realizes belatedly. He wonders if Sam and Dean knew who he'd be up against. He suspects they didn't. It doesn't matter. Lucifer is older than he is. Stronger than he is. Castiel will bend to Lucifer the same way Hester bent to him some time ago. Maybe the demons and humans will learn there's no point to pitting two angels against each other. Maybe not.

Lucifer has the decency to look sorry for what he's about to do, wings low, the tips of his feathers dragging in the sand. Castiel finds himself mimicking the body language. He's sorry, too.

"I just put you back together," Lucifer says, low, barely audible over the excited cheering coming from the crowd. "I really don't want to take you apart again. All that hard work for nothing."

Castiel seizes the opportunity. "Then don't. Let me walk away." Lucifer has done it before. He could do it again.

Around and above them, the crowd grows louder and louder the longer they fail to _do_ anything. Their cries of boredom and irritation are a minor distraction, easily shut out. He settles his wings more fully against his back. He won't fight. Not this time. Not with this opponent. He doesn't dare. Lucifer picks his wings up out of the sand and does the same. They still face each other but Lucifer's air of authority is gone. For the moment, at least, he is considering Cas an equal.

The first empty bottle that hits the sand surprises neither of them. Lucifer turns and the second bounces harmlessly off his wings.

"Fight already," yells one of the demons in the stands. Another joins it. A third. Someone starts booing and more trash hits the sand, spectators throwing whatever they can grab. Castiel doesn't move, all of his attention on the way Lucifer's lip is starting to curl.

"Lucifer—" Another bottle flies by and Cas has to duck to avoid getting hit in the head.

Lucifer snaps, wings flaring and turns in the direction the bottle came from. "I _made you_ ," he snarls and takes two steps toward the ring wall.

Castiel can read his intent plain as day. He lunges forward, ducking to the side and puts himself between Lucifer and the wall. "It isn't worth it."

That pulls Lucifer's attention back to him. Not necessarily a good thing, but better Castiel than any of the angry humans in the crowd, however stupid those humans might be. And far better than some demon that won't hesitate to fight back. "It isn't worth it," he says again and flattens out his wings submissively, low and broad, his shadow linking with Lucifer's across the sand. "There are demons here, old ones, and you can't fight them, not bound like we are. This isn't the right time."

Teeth still bared, Lucifer spreads his wings further, but after another tense moment they start to relax, the feathers smoothing down. The crowd boos, dissatisfied by the lack of conflict between two angels. Castiel doesn't care about that. He cares that Sam and Dean—and Bobby—are somewhere in that crowd and he cares because Lucifer has never cared about collateral damage.

"Not now," he says again, half a promise, and lifts his chin. He expects Lucifer to lunge for him and is surprised when Lucifer settles his wings around himself and sits down.

The fight, such as it was, is over.

Dean meets Castiel in the holding area after, confused and worried both. "What the hell happened out there? I saw his name come up against yours and I thought for sure he was gonna take you out. Why'd he back down?"

"It doesn't work like that, Dean." Cas tucks his wings in close to fit into the elevator. The sooner they get upstairs and out of it, the better. "When we were here before, during the war between Heaven and Hell, we were soldiers, moving according to our rank within each garrison."

"Meaning?"

"Lucifer outranks me. By all rights, he _should_ have taken me out."

"So wait, that last angel you were up against, she folded because...?"

"I outrank her."

"Jesus." Dean shakes his head, stepping out of the elevator first. "Soldiers or not, that must have been hell to deal with. I don't think I could live with something that rigid."

Castiel wants to point out that it kept order, and without order, Heaven's forces would have fallen long before they did, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter. Heaven's forces still fell. Hell still won and angels are still trapped on the earth, unable to tap into the fullness of Heaven's strength like they used to. In the end, order did nothing for them.

He can hear Sam and Dean talking quietly back at the house. Dean goes upstairs earlier than usual, and it's Sam who comes and locks the cage door this time.

"Night, Castiel," he says.

Cas tips his head in Sam's direction but chooses not to respond.

In the morning, the household settles back into its usual routine. Sam comes down first to start breakfast, Dean a short time later with hair still damp from a shower. He unlocks the cage door on his way into the kitchen. Castiel shakes his wings out but doesn't leave the cage and watches them move around the house. He can't see into the kitchen from where he stands, but he can see their shadows shifting in the early morning light.

It's a day as ordinary as any of the other thousands Castiel has passed on this earth, except that he now stays with two boys who show him pieces of the world he hasn't seen before, details angels never thought would exist to be known. He takes comfort in it and basks in the human simplicity of things. The way Dean offers him holy water and Sam practices Latin with him through the afternoon. It feels good, despite it occasional spike of discomfort the lingering traces of Eve's poison triggers.

But it doesn't last. In this small, human world, it never does. The weekend comes and passes, and near the end of it, Castiel climbs into the back of the truck again, on his way to yet another fight he doesn't want. He understands why the Winchesters do what they do but it doesn't mean he likes it.

He doesn't know the demon he's up against. It isn't one he's seen before, young and inexperienced, its true self humming close to the surface like an oil slick. The body it's taken is comparable to his own, male, middle-aged and non-descript, and Castiel itches to burn it out of the vessel.

It wastes precious time gloating. "I heard you got taken out by a little girl," it says with a smile. That isn't quite right, but rumors have never been constrained by the truth.

The demon continues talking, empty words. Castiel ignores it and surges forward. His wings stretch outwards; he uses the weight of them to lend force to his first strike and the demon, distracted and wholly unprepared for this fight hits the ground again several feet away. It leaves a track in the sand that Castiel is faintly proud of.

Judging from the sound of Dean's voice above the rest of the crowd, whooping it up, he's proud of it, too. Cas shakes his wings out, grains of sand scattering everywhere, unconcerned. He knows his record in the ring is unpredictable. He thought that by now his demonic opponents would be more cautious around him. Apparently not.

He waits patiently for it to get up. Very few things that enter the ring go down after a single strike and he has no reason to believe this particular demon, even as young as it is, will be any different. It moves slowly, rolling first onto its back and then to its side, and all around, the crowd roars for it to get up. It's nearly to its feet again when Castiel lashes out with his fist and hits it in the temple. He backs away from its flailing hands. There's no need to risk broken limbs.

It rises and spits into the dirt. Castiel allows himself the briefest moment of distraction. That proves to be a mistake and something slams into him from behind and takes him by surprise--

Pain lances down his back and Castiel startles, momentarily unresponsive, stunned by the heated stripes scoring his spine and wings. The demon in front of him grins andthrows its fist into his face. Castiel staggers back into the same thing that tore at him a second ago, something that _shouldn't be here_ , and drops to his knees.

Blood seeps out of Castiel's nose and drips down his face into his mouth and it tastes like poison but he doesn't wipe it away and he doesn't spit even though he knows both of those would be normal, acceptable, expected reactions. He doesn't do these things because Sam and Dean are in the ring with him for no reason he can fathom, standing between himself and the demon he's been fighting. Dean howls at it, color crawling its way up the back of his neck, while Sam shouts into the stands for Crowley to "get your ass down here and deal with your dogs!" and Castiel isn't entirely sure what's just happened to him, which is probably a bad sign.

His first coherent thought is that the Winchesters are angry with him, though in retrospect that's ridiculous. Sam rarely displays anger like this, preferring to sit down and discuss things calmly. Outbursts of aggression are more Dean's style.

It's the demon (or possibly demons, Castiel doesn't know and his vision is still swimming) that has set the brothers off this time, Dean disregarding his personal, fragile, human safety to push into Crowley's space, saying "That was an illegal fucking move and you know it!" Words that Castiel knows and understands but for some reason struggles to make sense of.

Here, Dean's anger is a distant, confused thing, though it rattles through Castiel's mind all the same.

"These are fights, not death matches," Sam is saying with icy reason. Castiel wavers, dizzy and too proud to fall yet, and misses Crowley's response, unable to hear it over the ringing in his ears.

Something warm touches his chest, slides over his skin to his shoulder and down his back, to the spaces along his spine where his Grace erupts from his mortal flesh and into disordered reality. It's Dean's hand, he finally realizes; it has to be since Sam's voice is still raised in counterpoint to Crowley's. The warmth of humanity trails gently over the back of his neck in a motion he recognizes as intended to be calming.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean murmurs. Even as close as he is, his voice is hard to hear. "You're okay. Everything's fine."

It takes Castiel longer than he'd like to muster up the will to respond, most of his energies dedicated to repairing the damage to his spine. When his body, weakened though it is, comes back fully under his control again, he pulls away, takes Dean's hands off his shoulders. "I'll heal. You need to leave the ring."

"No fucking way." Dean is kneeling, the stiff line of his shoulders speaking volumes about his anger and his fear.

A noise catches Castiel's attention nearby. Not Sam, not Dean, not the demon that's now arguing with Sam, but something _other_. He knows what hit him now and he knows that Sam and Dean have no hope of defending themselves against it. "You need to take Sam and leave the ring now."

"I already told you, I'm not—"

" _Dean._ " He grabs Dean by the arm and he knows Dean is unsettled, but he can't afford the luxury of caring about that right now. "There is a hellhound in the ring. You need to leave."

Except Dean doesn't get the chance to leave. Castiel finds the hellhound a moment later, blending in all too well with the air around it. He yanks Dean to the ground—better a mouthful of sand than his throat ripped open—just in time for the beast's jaws to snap closed on thin air. It snarls at Castiel and he bares his teeth in return. Even hellhounds hesitate to face an angel head on, and it turns its attention to Sam, interested in easier prey.

Castiel lunges for the hound, using his wings to kick sand into the air and impede it. Sam tumbles to the side with a startled "what?" Dean scrambles to his brother's side, helping him up and away from where Castiel struggles with the hellhound.

It snaps his teeth at him, but Cas can see it now, knows what and where it is, and it can't hurt him the way it did earlier. 

He buffets it with his wings and it howls at him. Cas stands between it and what it wants.

Cas is ready when it jumps for him this time. He brings his arm up and lets it sink its teeth into his flesh, a minor sacrifice for the leverage he gains in return. His tattoos prevent him from exorcising demons, but nothing is stopping him from digging his fingers into the soft of its throat. It yelps and whines and, arm now free, Cas closes his other hand around its muzzle and cages its huge, grotesque body in with his wings.

Distantly, he can hear Dean calling his name. That's not important. Important is keeping the Winchesters safe. Important is the wet crack of the hellhound's neck. Important is the way it's body hisses and melts into black smoke.

"What a show!" Crowley parades his way into the ring. "Aren't you glad you all came out tonight? There's a story you can tell your spawn. You saw an angel take down a hellhound and you lived to tell the tale. Lucky you!"

Dean marches up to Crowley. "Hey, asshole."

"Not now," Crowley says softly, eyes still on the crowd. He goes back to his address as though Dean hadn't said a word. "Now, I hope all of you are sufficiently boozed up and have placed your bets for the next round. I'm sure it will be even more exciting than this one was."

The spectators seem to approve of Crowley's speech. They yell and cheer. Someone spills beer over the ledge and half of it ends up in Castiel's hair. He frowns, the scent of it mixing unpleasantly with the smell of sand and death, and jumps when Sam touches his arm.

"Cas?" Sam frowns, his forehead wrinkled with concern. It's an expression Sam uses most often when Dean is drunk. Castiel knows what he looks like, back and arm bleeding, covered in filth, and can't say that Sam's worry is unfounded. "Come on, Cas, let's get out of here."

He follows docilely, content to be led for the moment. To his surprise, Crowley is standing on the other side of the wall, waiting for them.

"You boys have no idea how insanely lucky you are." Crowley is agitated, his anxiety visible in the way his demon-self curls just under the surface of his skin. He's barely controlled. "We need to talk. That includes your bird."

Dean and Sam share a look Castiel still hasn't learned to interpret. It involves raised eyebrows and scrunched up noses and other body language that seems to be unique to the Winchesters. After a moment, Sam crosses his arms and hangs his head. A moment longer, and he's following Crowley down the hall. Dean motions for Cas to follow after, and he would even if Dean weren't asking him to, his curiosity demanding to be satisfied.

Crowley's office is huge, opulent and out of place in the otherwise run-down Roadhouse. He sits in a large chair that could probably accommodate Castiel's wings, the only one like it in the room. Dean and Sam remain standing, but Cas is tired. He settles on the floor. It seems the best option.

"First of all, you boys need to know that dog wasn't mine." Crowley rummages through his desk until he finds a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses. He pours a few fingers for each of them, Castiel included. "And I don't know whose it was, won't be able to tell now that your bird's gone and killed it—well done by the way, that was beautiful—but I've got an inkling. I doubt it was an accident it ended up in there."

"So tell us what you know!"

" _Dean._ " Sam pulls Dean to a halt with that one word. It's a useful skill. "When you say you've got an inkling, do you mean it's just a hunch or has something like this happened before?"

"Oh, it's happened a few times." His whiskey glass is empty, so he refills it before continuing. "There's just one little problem. People who mention that in mixed company have a habit of...vanishing, if you catch my meaning."

Castiel watches the cycle of confusion-fear-rage on Dean's face with fascination. Amazing what an open book he is.

"Okay. Okay, so tell us what you can. Anything you can. I mean, if this is gonna happen again, we'll pull out of the fights—"

"Before I tell you anything at all, I want your solemn word that this information doesn't leave this room. You don't tell anyone about it, and you certainly don't tell them you heard it from me."

"Anything," Dean says. Sam nods in agreement.

"'Anything' isn't your word, numbskull."

Castiel stands up again, the rustle of his feathers catching everyone's attention. "We swear it. No one will know you told us this. Is that enough?"

It must be. Crowley sits up a little straighter, whiskey forgotten. "Tell me, what do you boys know about a demon named Azazel?"


	5. Chapter 5

Dean's agitation is a physical thing crawling down his spine. "Azazel? He's the bastard who owns Eve."

"Among others." Crowley taps his glass on the table and Dean suddenly wishes he hadn't ignored the whiskey earlier. "He owns quite a few monsters, in fact. Employs a few demons and no, I'm not one of them. If I'm not mistaken, he even has an angel hidden away somewhere."

Dean can feel his blood starting to boil, and it's only Sam shoving a drink into his hand that stops him from slamming his fists onto the desk. No sir, Dean isn't going to waste good, free alcohol, not even when he's this angry. "So he set this up? He set Cas up against Eve?"

"Actually, that was an accident. Eve was meant to be Lucifer's opponent in the matchups. It's only Bobby Singer's good luck and your awful luck that she got Castiel instead." Crowley looks entirely too damn smug for Dean's liking.

"You mean you arranged."

"Oh, don't be an idiot."

"I think he's telling the truth, Dean." Sam tucks himself between Dean and the desk, a physical barrier between Dean's fist and Crowley's face. "Relax, okay? Let's just hear him out."

"Thank you, Sam. Always knew you were the clever one."

Sam makes a face. _Dean_ makes a face. "Just tell us whatever it is you want to tell us."

"I'd rather you were sitting down first," Crowley says.

Sam sits first, Cas following suit a second later with a rustle of feathers on the floor. He's still oozing a little, but it doesn't look like he's in any pain. Dean sits, eyes still on Cas. Crowley clears his throat and waits for everyone to look at him again.

"Azazel had your parents killed."

What the _fuck_.

"Dean!"

Castiel's grip is painfully tight on Dean's arm. He has no idea when he launched out of his chair or how Cas stood up so damn fast. Always the perfect fucking showman, Crowley hasn't moved.

"Don't shoot the messenger. I'm only telling you what I know. Sit down."

"You'd better not be lying, you son of a bitch," Dean growls, letting Sam and Cas pull him back down. Sitting on the floor feels weird. And small.

"Shocking though it may be, I have no reason to lie to you. In fact, I'm risking my life by telling you any of this. Azazel arranged your parents' death, that's the truth. Considering he burned their bird's body after, I suspect it was because they were getting a little too good at winning." He kicks back, feet on the desk. "Fortunately for you boys, your track record hasn't been nearly as impressive."

"But the hellhound," Sam says.

"Lucky you, Castiel not only survived Eve, but he very publicly calmed an archangel down. Sorry, boys, but you're a threat now. Especially after the hellhound."

Dean's heard enough. Azazel was fine when he was just another competitor but this—knowing the bastard killed his _parents_ , good people whose only fault was trying to make a living—this is more than Dean can stand. He's done. Done with the fights. Done with Azazel. "So we take him out."

"Dean!" Sam and Cas' voices come at him from either side.

Crowley, meanwhile, laughs. "Good thing you're pretty because you're a Grade-A idiot. I just told you he's done this before. Done it for years. Think, Winchester. How does he get away with that?"

Fuck. "How many of 'em?"

"Oh, I'd say at least half the force. Honestly, there are probably fewer officers who aren't in his pocket than ones who are." Sam opens his mouth and Crowley cuts him off. "I'm a showman, a salesman, and a _demon_. It's my business to know things."

"Azazel must be stopped," Cas says, quiet enough that Dean struggles to hear him. Sam makes a noise of agreement.

"Azazel needs to be put down," Dean snaps. A fucking demon murdered his parents and the damn angel Dean grew up with. He's so angry his vision is starting to blur.

"And I absolutely agree with you both. If nothing else, he's bad for my bottom line. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors."

No. Dean's on his feet in a heartbeat. He slams his palms on the desk and Crowley, the asshole, doesn't even flinch. "You're helping us."

"And why exactly would I do that? I don't owe you anything and I rather like my head where it is. If you want a wise sage to help you out, go talk to your surrogate father."

"Bobby?" Sam sits up straight.

"Dude, Bobby's been spouting off shit about crop circles and aliens mutilating cows since before Sam was born. How's that supposed to help us?"

Crowley actually looks offended. "That old man has been protecting you two idiots from the sidelines since the day your parents died. You should show him some respect. The crazy conspiracy theorists aren't always wrong, and Bobby Singer is right more often than most. Smarter than most, too. Pulling out of the bouts is what's kept him in one piece this long. It's a pain in my ass, but it works."

None of that is the answer Dean wanted to hear. It doesn't even come close. "You have to--"

"I _have_ to do nothing!"

Dean's vision blacks out for a second, Cas' wing in front of his face a little too closely. As awesome as it is to have an angel on his side, Dean bristles. He doesn't need Cas to protect him from Crowley. His throat starts tightening and he pushes at the joint of the wing until Cas looks back at him and moves it. The air in the office is suddenly too warm and too close and he needs to leave. He needs to go, get back home, stand on familiar territory, collect his thoughts.

He shoves past Sam without a word. A couple people glance at him when he passes, but there are still more fights left in the evening. Everyone is too interested in those or their drinks to pay much attention to Dean, which is fine by him. He needs air. He can't breathe in here.

The cool air outside the Roadhouse is a slap in the face and Dean drinks it in. He makes his way over to the truck unsteadily and climbs in the back. Lying in the truck bed brings another measure of relief. Dean watches the sky until he feels his heart begin to slow. By the time Cas leans over him, he feels better, a little more normal.

Sam peers over the side. "You okay?"

"No. Hurry up and drive."

Sam looks at Cas and shrugs. Cas stays where he is a moment longer before he climbs into the truck bed and settles on top of Dean for lack of anywhere else to go. It doesn't make any sense, but the curtain of dark feathers blocking out his view of the sky helps ground Dean. The road home is uneven and bumpy, but he manages to nap a little anyway.

He's startled awake when Cas moves and sits up, blinking into the darkness. "We home?"

"No."

"What?" If they're not home then where are they?

"Given what we've learned, Sam and I agreed it might be wise to stay the night with Bobby." Cas slides out of the truck bed, making way for Dean to do the same.

Sam's already halfway inside, talking to Bobby on the porch. Bobby looks up and waves at Dean, a gesture Dean's seen a thousand times before. It means "get your fool ass inside, boy."

"—that's when he said we should come talk to you," Sam says just as Dean and Cas walk up. "It seemed like he thought you knew what was going on."

"Hell, I had my suspicions even before your mother and daddy died. He's been a tough nut to crack for years, that Azazel." Bobby takes his hat off and runs his hand over his hair. "I'm sorry I never told you boys, but it didn't look like he saw you as a threat. Thought you'd be safer if I kept quiet."

"Because Cas wasn't winning?"

"Because _Anna_ wasn't winning. I know her death was hard on you, Dean, but it might've saved you and Sam. No sense going after a pair of boys what can't even keep a lower angel alive. But then you picked up Cas—no offense, Cas."

"None taken," Cas says, wings spread across the living room floor.

Bobby continues. "You pick him up and things seem okay for a while. He wins some, he loses some. But this last couple weeks? Surviving Eve? I've been looking into that. He's the first. And then talking Lucifer down and now this hellhound thing I'm hearing about. If Azazel's got a hit list, you just landed on it."

Dean can feel his hackles rising every time Bobby says Azazel's name. Pacing the room isn't helping, not when he has to navigate around Bobby's books and Sam's giant everything and Cas' stupid wings. He bumps into them on a circuit and like magic, some of the tension bleeds out of him. Weird, but good. So he sits down and yeah, that feels a lot better, actually.

"We're taking him down. The sooner the better."

"Dean, we can't." Sam has no business being a voice of reason. Not right now.

"He killed Mom and Dad! Killed them, burned Michael, made the whole thing look like a wreck, like some stupid accident! We have to go after him and we have to do it now!"

"I said we can't! We don't even know what he's done before, how many people are on his payroll—"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Yes, it does!"

" _Enough!_ " 

The windows in the house shake with the force of Cas' shout and Dean swears he hears the rafters creak. Dean shuts his mouth and looks down. Even Sam looks a little bit ashamed. Bobby looks like he's trying to fight a laugh.

"Dean." Cas' voice is softer this time. "Sam is right. We don't know enough about Azazel or his habits to do anything. I know what you want, but it isn't time. If you go after him now, it won't end well for you."

"You're siding with him now?"

"I'm siding with whatever keeps us alive."

Dammit. Cas isn't supposed to be a voice of reason, too.

"Well then." Bobby pulls out a folder and opens it, spreading its contents on his desk. "If you boys are looking for info on his habits, you can start here. Can't guarantee everything in here's accurate, but it's what I've put together since the first accident. You find anything useful in there, you're welcome to it."

Sam grabs the papers with the kind of light in his eyes that used to herald an all-night studying binge. "Thanks, Bobby," he says, and vanishes upstairs. They won't see him again until morning. Maybe later.

Bobby sighs and shakes his head. "That's one idiot down for the night. As for the two of you, Dean, you know where the spare blankets are. Castiel, let's get you downstairs."

"Wait, hang on." Dean's still wound up. He's not sure he wants Cas locked in tight with Lucifer just yet. "He can stay out. He's not gonna go anywhere, right, Cas?"

"Boy, are you stupid? I keep Lucifer out off half his fights and toe the line the rest of the time for a damn good reason, and I ain't about to start breaking laws now. I trust him not to flap away. I don't trust Azazel's cronies not to come busting in here trying to find a reason to arrest me. He's going downstairs."

"Cas?"

Cas twitches his wings. "I'd prefer not to, but Bobby makes a point."

Half an hour later and Cas is locked in downstairs. Lucifer starts up a conversation with him before the door is fully shut and Cas seems pleased by that. Dean, on the other hand, is too restless, too keyed up, and too anxious to beat Azazel's face in. He's just about convinced there's no point in trying to sleep when Sam bangs on the door and tells him to haul ass downstairs for breakfast.

Huh. Guess he slept some after all. Mouth tastes like death, so yeah. Definitely slept.

Sam might have said to come get breakfast, but when Dean gets downstairs there's nothing on the table except papers and photographs. Sam's poring over them, making notes here and there and Jesus, he looks like he's been up all night. Dean's feeling a little useless, considering all he did was lie in bed and pass out like the sad sack he is.

"Crowley's right," Sam says, not even looking up. "Azazel's definitely done this before. There's half a dozen disappearances in about a hundred mile radius, all of them people involved in the fights. They're pretty spread out, though, and there's no real pattern to the dates. I'm not surprised nobody's really put it together yet."

"All of 'em winners, too?"

"Most of them, yeah. There's a couple more that are probably him, that happened when the fighters were out of state, and there's at least one here where the guy's house was just abandoned one day. No sign of him or the djinn he kept around. There's no evidence he died, but if he didn't, he's done an incredible job hiding."

Dean resigns himself to coffee since there's nowhere to put food. Sam's even spread notes on the stove. "Maybe we can find the guy. Maybe he'll know something Bobby and Crowley don't."

"I kind of doubt it." Sam takes Dean's coffee, ignoring his protest. Dammit, Sam. "He disappeared almost twenty years ago, and he wasn't young. Azazel might not have gotten him but by now old age definitely has."

"So we've still just got Bobby and whatever Crowley's willing to tell us." Awesome. Dean adds a little whiskey to his coffee this time. Now he needs both.

Sam shrugs, jotting something down in his notebook. "Looks like. Good news is, Bobby's got a lot of info here. Azazel's got patterns, they're just not easy to figure out. He seems to leave people alone until they start winning against him more than they're losing."

"Sore loser. That figures."

"He's a real winner." Sam taps his pen on a photograph. "Like Jo and Ellen. Remember that fire they had a couple months ago? The one where they were lucky they'd gone out of town last minute?"

Dean can feel the blood draining from his face. "You think that was Azazel's doing?"

"Considering the fire department didn't show until the house was down to cinders, yeah. I think it's probably why they haven't been putting Gabriel up in as many fights lately. Or any, really. I thought it was kind of weird that they didn't get back into things, especially since one or two fights and they'd have had enough to rebuild the place, but this might explain it. Azazel scared them off."

Everything about this is leaving a bad taste in Dean's mouth. Cops in his pocket, fire brigade in his pocket, people scared away from something that keeps a roof over their heads, fuck. As if Dean needed more reasons to hate the bastard.

"He's like some kind of serial killer with the way he goes after people. How do we—"

There's a knock at the door and Dean cuts off. Sam shifts, holding up a hand to stop Dean from going to it. Nobody knows they're here. Probably a good thing to keep it that way for the moment.

Bobby thumps his way down from the second floor and down the hall to the front door. The voices are indistinct enough that Dean can't make out what they're saying, but he recognizes the newcomer's tone. Sam raises an eyebrow. _Ruby?_ Dean nods. He's got no idea why the hell Ruby's here. Last he knew, she didn't talk to Bobby all that much.

A few minutes pass. Sam takes the time to reorganize the papers and photographs, tucking them back into the folder and stuffing the whole thing into his knapsack. The door closes and Bobby comes into the kitchen a minute later.

"You boys are in trouble."

Dean's on high alert in a heartbeat. A quick glance at Sam shows he is, too. "That was Ruby, wasn't it? What'd you tell her?"

"Told her your truck was in my scrapyard for repairs. She might've believed me, she might not have. But you better believe she ain't your friend anymore."

"We'll get out of your hair, Bobby, we won't bring them down on you," Dean says.

Sam nods and stands. "I'll get Cas."

Bobby waits for Sam to leave the room before he takes Dean by the arm and guides him away from the kitchen window. "Rumors are already spreading about you two. Ruby says that hellhound was yours, aimed at the demon in the ring and Cas only took it out because it rebelled and went after the wrong person. She was warning me to watch out for you two."

"What—Bobby, you know that thing wasn't ours. It went after Sam!"

"I know that. You know that. Every demon in the area knows it. But humans? You gotta admit, boy, we're awful stupid sometimes. They'll buy it. And if people think you've got hellhounds?"

"Then we're in deep shit."

Bobby looks sympathetic. "Go to ground for a while. With a little luck, this'll blow over in a few days. You'll want to pull out of the fights, no way around it, but if you keep quiet and keep your head down, Azazel should lose interest pretty soon. Give you a little breathing room." He presses a set of keys into Dean's hand. "Take Lucifer with you. He can help."

"No. No way." Not only is Lucifer an asshole, it doesn't feel right, taking him. "I'm not leaving you with nothing if Azazel comes after you."

"I ain't the one keen on breaking the law, you moron." Bobby doesn't let Dean give the keys back. He steps over to the sink and starts pulling things from the cabinets over it. A couple bottles of liquor, more files, and goddamn, he must have information on Azazel stashed everywhere in his house. "I'm safe enough and there's nothing saying I can't give an angel to a friend. Police in his pocket or not, Azazel's got no good reason to come after me." He pushes the files into Dean's hands and Dean, still fumbling with the keys, almost drops them. 

"Bobby, I know you and me, we've had our rough spots, but—"

Bobby doesn't let him finish. "You go help your brother and get the hell out of here."

Sam's just closing the cage door when Dean gets downstairs. He stops with it still cracked. "Well?"

"You remember that old hunting lodge of Dad's? We're going up there. I think Cas pissed Azazel off when he killed the hellhound. Rumor mill's running at high speed." He hands the keys over to Cas so he can waves the files Bobby gave him in Sam's face. "Bobby gave me this and said we should take Lucy with us."

Lucifer leans forward. "You don't say."

Dean ignores him. "Let's get packed up and get the hell out of here before Ruby or someone else decides to drop by again."

"You realize that the moment you let me out of this room I'll run, don't you? Might even take Castiel with me. I like him."

"People will die," Cas says.

"I don't care."

"But I do."

Dean watches the short back and forth like a tennis match. "Okay, look--come with us or don't. If it was up to me, you'd be staying here where we don't have to deal with your feathered ass!"

"Why, Dean," Lucifer says, "I didn't know you cared. Of course I'll come."

Sam shoots Dean a mutinous look and Dean shrugs. He's not a huge fan of the idea either, but Bobby did say to take Lucifer, and if Azazel decides he wants to take them out, having a second halo around won't hurt. He knows what Lucifer is capable of and he's pretty sure any of Azazel's cronies will think twice about coming after them if they've got an archangel at their back.

"Great. Awesome. Sam, you get him set up. Cas and me will pack whatever car these keys go to." God, he hopes it's not a piece of shit.

It is, of course, because this is a car from a scrapyard he's looking at, but it's a huge ass van with half the seats in the back taken out. Cas inspects it, declares it "a bit cramped, but suitable," and climbs into the back to settle cross-legged on the floor, wings tucked loose around his shoulders. Dean figures anything is better than trying to cram a pair of angels into the back of a pickup.

Sam takes almost an hour to emerge with Lucifer in tow and Dean's starting to understand why Bobby used to bitch about how long it took him to prep for fights. Lucifer's smiling, all confidence despite the cuffs on his wrists. He doesn't falter when he gets into the van either, though he does smack Sam in the head with a wing in a gesture that Dean's pretty sure was intentional. Sam, in turn, almost slams the back door on Lucifer's feathers.

"Try not to piss him off, will you?" Dean starts the engine.

"I'm starting to think Bobby's trying to get rid of him. Helping us is just a bonus."

Dean huffs out a laugh. That'd be like Bobby, but he doesn't think that's the case this time, and he knows Sam doesn't really think it either.

It's a long drive to the cabin, and for the most part it's quiet. Sam goes over his notes and the files Bobby gave them, occasionally pointing details out to Dean. In the back, Cas and Lucifer talk to each other in low voices, sliding from one language to another with the kind of ease Dean doesn't even have in English.

The worst part of it, really, is that Lucifer sings along to all the music Dean plays, whether he knows the lyrics or not. It's annoying as all hell.

By the time they make it upstate to the cabin, the sun is almost gone, Sam has dozed off in the passenger seat, and Cas has tucked himself up close behind Dean to watch the road go by. Lucifer, thank fuck, is quiet at last, but Dean can still feel his eyes on the back of his head. Creepy.

"Will you have everything you require?"

"What?" It takes Dean a second to process that. The drive has slowed his brain down. "Oh, food and stuff? Yeah, nothing fancy, but there's canned beans and meat. Probably Spam. Sam'll hate it, but as long as we've got that and running water, we've got enough."

Dean feels Castiel nod and slide away. Once the van is parked, Cas opens the rusted back door; his feet crunch on the gravel when he steps out. Lucifer follows suit immediately after, wings opening with a sharp snap the moment he's free. The sound jolts Sam awake, poor bastard.

"We here?" He fumbles with the various papers, somehow managing to sort them into a semblance of order.

"Cas and Lucy are already out. Take your time, sleeping beauty, I'll get them set up inside."

"Dean," Sam calls after him. "We don't have a cage here."

Right. The only downside to this place and dammit, Dean wishes he'd remembered that detail earlier. "We'll let Cas do whatever and keep Lucifer shackled. It'll be okay, Cas'll keep him in line."

"You really think he can?"

Dean looks toward the cabin, where Cas and Lucifer wait with varying levels of patience. "He's shut Lucy down twice before, rank be damned. I think he can handle it." He also thinks some of Lucifer's in-their-face aggression might be an act, because God knows Dean's put off those same signals when he's felt hemmed in, but he doesn't know so he doesn't say anything.

Cas settles into the cabin easily enough. He touches damn near everything, wiping his fingers through dust and making a face every time they come back dirty. Lucifer bitches about being left in cuffs, like Dean expected he would, but without a cage handy, and considering they don't know or trust him like they do Cas, in cuffs Lucifer stays.

Dean still sleeps uneasily that night. Knowing Lucifer's not locked up underground somewhere very far away is enough to set his teeth on edge, but there's not much he can do about it.

Sam stays up most of the night reading and making notes. Turns out Bobby's second file had maps and building layouts in it, and he's determined to find a way to use the information, especially when Lucifer tips his head at one of the maps and says it looks familiar to him. Dean doesn't want Lucifer anywhere near his little brother, but in this case, he figures an exception has to be made. The more pairs of eyes they have looking at this the better.

A day passes. And another. After a week, Dean's restless and jumpy. The fact that Lucifer's convinced Sam to let him out of the cuffs during the day really doesn't help. To make matters worse, Cas spends most of his days on the porch and staring at the sky, more quiet than he's ever been. Everything about him feels distant, and the calming air Dean has found in him in the past is long gone.

It's like Cas and Lucifer are sliding back into their old soldier roles and they're dragging Sam with them. He hates it. Hates feeling like he can't do anything because he doesn't have Sam's brains, Lucifer's cleverness, or Cas' patience.

"You're unhappy," Cas says.

Dean startles. It's the first thing he's heard from Cas in over a day. "You're standing watch, Lucifer's translating something, Sam's in nerd heaven. Me, I can't even make you guys sandwiches."

"I don't need to eat—"

"That's not the point!" The point is that nothing's happening, that he's been holed up for a week without anything interesting or useful he can do, that he's tired of waiting for Azazel to come after them. He wants to just go already. Take the bastard out. Stop him from ruining more lives for the sake of his bottom line.

Cas sighs. His wings droop behind him, dragging on the wood floor, and Dean is struck with the sudden, vicious urge to pull the feathers.

"I'm only standing watch because I don't need to sleep like you do. Sam and Lucifer's individual talents are likewise suited to what they do. But you're not useless, Dean. If not for you, we wouldn't be here in the first place."

"You mean if I hadn't bought you, we wouldn't be in trouble in the first place."

"I was referring to the fact that you drove us here, but that's true, too."

Ouch.

"Dean." Cas sits on the steps, pulling a wing back to make room. "Sit down. I want to teach you something."

"Something useful, I hope."

Cas tilts his head to one side. "Not right now, but if you get the chance to use it, knowing an exorcism might help you ."

Dean is on board with that. What Cas teaches him is Latin, he knows that much, but that's all he can decipher. Learning something so unfamiliar to him almost seems like an impossible task, but Dean's willing to struggle if it could be useful later. Cas drills him for over an hour before he gives Dean a break and after dinner he starts up again. Sam watches them with interest for a minute, but Lucifer pulls him back to the files in short order. Dean's exhausted when he goes to bed, his brain thoroughly fried.

The house settles into silence around midnight, broken only by the low tones of Cas and Lucifer talking to each other. The sounds of their voices eventually lull Dean to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Early the next morning, Cas wakes Dean up, testing him on what he remembers. Dean starts muttering the phrases to himself over coffee so he can keep practicing.

"Castiel's taught his favorite monkey a new trick. That's cute."

"Didn't anybody ever teach you that if you don't have something nice to say, you should shut the hell up?"

Lucifer smiles, the expression weirdly benevolent. It creeps Dean out. "Take these off." He holds out his hands. "I have work to do."

Dean can feel his lip curl. Lucifer might not be as violently aggressive as they used to think he was, but that doesn't mean he's sunshine and sparkles, either. "You can wait until Sam gets up."

"It can't, actually."

Oh hell no, he doesn't have the patience for this right now. Dean opens his mouth to snap at Lucifer again when Lucifer scares the shit out of him by flaring his wings and suddenly all Dean can see is garish pink-and-orange feathers, some kind of stupid postcard sunrise stapled to an angel's back and despite the hilarity of an archangel in _pink_ Dean feels set on edge, like he's waiting for a blow that never comes.

"I have work to do," Lucifer says again. "Work that requires my hands free."

"You can write notes like this, I've seen you."

"True. Unfortunately, I can't snap a hellhound's neck like this."

And now Lucifer has Dean's full and rapt attention. "Hellhounds? There are hellhounds here?" Oh fuck, they're screwed. "How'd they find us?"

"Does it matter?" Lucifer drops his wings and Dean can see the rest of the kitchen again. Or he could, if his heart wasn't in his throat. "Castiel saw one earlier and I guarantee there's more than one out there. Azazel has your scent and he's coming after you. Take the cuffs off, Dean. Believe or not, I'd rather keep you alive."

"Okay. Yeah, okay." Dean fumbles for the keys, almost dropping them before he can fit them into the locks.

The cuffs chime against the floor and Lucifer turns, lifting one wing high so it passes over Dean's head, feathers brushing against the cabinets. "Stay inside," he says, a note of warning in his voice. "If anything other than one of us comes in through that door, recite that chant Castiel taught. It'll slow them down."

He vanishes outside and Dean almost feels like he can breathe again. Almost. There's a bang loud enough to make the windows rattle in their frames. Dean jumps and Sam thunders downstairs.

"What's going on?" He heads for the door.

"No--no, Sam!" Dean grabs him by the arm. He might not like Lucifer, but he plans to take this whole 'stay inside until we come back' thing pretty seriously. "There's hellhounds. Azazel found us."

"What—where's Cas? Where's Lucifer?"

Something outside howls and Dean doesn't need Sam's book smarts to figure out what it is. "Where do you think, Sam? They're outside, doing their thing and keeping us in one piece."

"Jesus." Sam's pale and shaking. Dean figures he probably isn't any better. They've both seen a lot of things in their lives, a lot of fights and injuries and deaths, but hellhounds, those are something different altogether. 

"Come on," Dean says quietly and drags Sam back upstairs. If the things get in the cabin, it won't matter if they're upstairs or down, but putting a little space between himself and the front door makes Dean feel better.

He can hear Lucifer laughing through the walls, and he's tempted to go to the window and look out, but there's no point. He wouldn't be able to see anything but Lucifer and Cas anyway. Sam gathers his notes and his duffel, settling into a corner and working quietly in a clear effort to distract himself from what's happening outside. Dean tries to help, but he's never been as good at finding patterns as Sam and he's too anxious with those howls surrounding the house anyway.

It seems like forever until things finally go quiet, but his coffee's still warm. It's been fifteen minutes, tops.

"D'you think?" Sam starts and Dean shakes his head. He doesn't know.

There are footsteps downstairs. They pause and then the steps creak as something large and weighted comes up them. Dean's got nothing that'll work against a hellhound, nothing that'll stop it instead of just slowing it down a little and pissing it off, but he picks up his shotgun anyway.

The door eases open and— 

"Cas. Thank God."

Cas is a mess. He's filthy; there's blood matted in his hair, feathers missing from his wings, but he seems unconcerned by his state. "We need to leave. Lucifer's already moving things into the van."

"Leaving? Did you not get all the hellhounds or something?"

"No, they're gone." Cas steps back to make room for Sam and Dean to pass him, but Dean is frozen in place and Sam's still gathering his things together. "Dean."

"Maybe we should just stay here."

"Dean, no," Sam says.

Cas interrupts him. "I thought you wanted to 'put Azazel down'. Weren't those your words?"

Dean pulls back a little. "That was before the hellhounds."

"Lucifer and I are more than capable of defending you from them and anything else Azazel might send our way. It's true demons will be more difficult, as neither of us is presently capable of exorcising them—"

"We'll pull out of the fights. I mean we were gonna soon anyway, but we'll pull out of them now and you and Lucifer won't need to keep hounds off our tails. You'll be free, Sam and I will manage. Everybody's happy—holy shit!"

Cas shoves his way into the room, wings filling it and Dean takes back everything he ever said about Cas not really having a presence. He has one, and the full weight of it is bearing down on Dean, heavy and choking. "He killed your mother and father for no other reason than that they were too successful for his tastes. He's killed or intimidated others for the same reason. He's not going to stop just because you do."

" _Jesus_ , Cas," Dean says. "Tell me how you really feel."

"Let Sam drive," Cas says. "Teach him what I taught you. It could prove helpful to you both."

"And you?"

"Killing a pack of hellhounds isn't exactly easy. I'm tired. Lucifer is, too. We'll rest."

And that settles that.

Dean splits his time in the passenger seat between teaching Sam the weird Latin chant and trying to read a hand-drawn map from Bobby's file. There are roads mislabeled and some that aren't labeled at all. They get lost twice before they're sure they're on the right track. And even then, they're only sure they're on the right track because a goddamn djinn jumps into the road in front of them.

"Holy shit!" Sam swerves to avoid crashing and in the back, Cas and Lucifer topple over.

Cas' head pops up a second later, wide-eyed and a little sleepy looking. "What happened?"

"I think we're getting close," Sam squints into the darkness. More power to him, Dean can't see a damn thing. "Scratch that, I know we're getting close. That looked like a djinn. Right?"

"That or a guy with a tattoo fetish. You two get enough sleep back there?"

Lucifer answers by pushing the door open and hopping out of the van. Okay, then, guess he got enough sleep.

Cas follows after and appears at the passenger window a moment later. He motions for Dean and Sam to get out of the van. "We'll go on foot from here. They already know we're coming, but they'll be expecting a vehicle now. Let them."

"And when they figure out we're hoofing it?"

"You and Sam are both armed. Lucifer and I are capable of handling whatever else comes our way."

"Cas," Sam cuts in, "no offense, but we've seen you fight before and you don't exactly have the best track record."

Cas tips his head and flares his wings. "You've also seen me snap a hellhound's neck."

Lucifer snorts, clearly unimpressed, but the statement is enough to shut Sam up. Shuts Dean up, too. As quiet as Cas is, it's sometimes easy to ignore the fact that he used to be one of Heaven's warriors.

The road is dark and Dean has to rely on the faint glow of moonlight to guide his path. Two lights on either side of a broad driveway mark a return to civilization. Behind the gate, Azazel's house is enormous. Dean's never seen it before, didn't even know what kind of place the guy lived in. Apparently, he's a fan of the good life.

Lucifer guides them along the fence to a point Dean remembers seeing marked on one of the maps. It's another gate, but it lacks the electronic locks the main one has. Lucifer rears back, wings spread wide for balance and slams his heel into the lock once, twice, the metal ringing with each strike. The lock shatters on the third strike and Dean swallows hard. Remind him to never let Lucifer kick him.

Despite all the noise Lucifer makes breaking the lock, and all the subsequent noise they make squeezing through the narrow gate, Dean's surprised nothing comes charging at them. "That should have gotten somebody's attention, right?"

Sam meet's Dean's gaze, lower lip caught firmly between his teeth and nods. Lucifer and Cas don't say anything. All of their attention is on the building ahead.

The house is as quiet as the grounds. There's no sign of monsters or demons anywhere that Dean can see, and he's still not sure if that makes him feel better; mostly it makes him worried. They know how many people and monsters are on Azazel's payroll. The fact that only one djinn has shown up so far is troubling. They turn down a hallway that could fit the entire Winchester house and there's still nothing. Ahead, Lucifer peers through an archway into another room. He turns back toward Castiel and shrugs.

Dean turns toward Sam. "This is way too easy."

"Definitely," Sam mutters. "He sends hellhounds after us, but then the house is empty? Something feels wrong here."

Cas flicks his wing in their faces, a clear order to be _quiet_. Dean takes the hint and shuts up.

There's an enormous stairway in the front entrance, so wide that the van they abandoned could fit on it. Sideways. Lucifer glances at it and breaks away from the rest of them to head upstairs. Cas follows without a word, leaving the brothers startled and scrambling to catch up. 

"I get that you're soldiers, but we're not. A little communication would be nice," Dean hisses at Cas.

Cas glances back at Dean and ducks his head briefly. Dean takes it for an apology.

Every single door upstairs is closed, and since none of them can see through walls, Dean takes it upon himself to start a game of "Find Azazel" by opening one.

Oh hell, that's a werewolf.

"Dean! Get down!"

He drops and Sam fires right into the wolf's face. She crumples to the floor, most of her head missing. Dean feels like he's going to be sick, but he doesn't have the time for that. Sam's shout and the gunshot just set off a chain reaction.

Every door in the hallway slams open at the same time, monsters and demons—and fuck, one of them is Ruby—pouring out after them. 

Cas grabs Dean's arm and drags him upright, pushing him back in the direction they came. "Run!"

Fancy tile floors aren't really made for running on, but Dean manages, Sam and two angels hot on his heels. A djinn comes at Dean from the side and Cas is there, pulling Dean out of the way and twisting its head the wrong way around on its neck in the same fluid motion. Lucifer comes up behind them and pushes Dean into running again.

They turn a corner, forced to slow down by a narrow hallway. Dean's run out of shotgun shells somewhere along the way, so he ditches the gun and uses the nearest heavy object, some fancy candlestick, to beat in a changeling's head. He's got blood on his hands and he can't seem to catch his breath and god _dammit_ where's Azazel? Lucifer yanks him out of the way of another monster and—

"Where's Cas? Where's Sam?!"

"I don't know. Keep moving."

"My brother—"

"Castiel will keep him safe. _Keep moving._ "

Dean takes a step and wobbles. He's not made for this. "I can't." He's always thought of himself as being in good shape, but right now he needs to sit down.

"You don't have a choice," Lucifer snarls, and pushes him forward.

Ahead, Dean sees an open doorway and he points himself toward it. "There. In there—we can regroup, catch our breath."

"Give them time to catch up to us, you mean."

"They'll bottleneck in the door!"

Lucifer gives Dean a look that plainly means he thinks Dean's an idiot, but he follows anyway. Dean shuts the door as fast as he can and shoves a chair under the knob. It won't hold, not for more than a second or two, but he feels like he can breathe again. Just for now.

The feeling doesn't last. Lucifer howls, dragged away from Dean by his wings. He twists in the grip of whatever—whoever—is holding onto him, manages to get his hands on it and it's Azazel. Azazel who's been sitting in this empty, open room the entire time. Azazel, who snarls like an animal, so angry that he's popped a blood vessel in his eye, staining it an unnatural shade of red. Lucifer tightens his grip but nothing happens. The tattooed sigils do their work. Lucifer can't exorcise Azazel.

But Dean can.

He hopes.

He edges away from where Lucifer and Azazel grapple with each other, putting himself on the other side of a huge, heavy desk. " _Crux sancta mihi lux_ ," he says, just loud enough that Azazel hears him.

Azazel stops in the middle of trying to snap one of Lucifer's wings. All his fury is temporarily focused on Dean. His eyes flicker between red and black and Jesus, he ust be angry because he's turning fucking _purple_. Dean could swear he sees the blood darkening in Azazel's veins. The exorcism dies in Dean's throat.

Lucifer beats his wings and lunges forward. He yanks Azazel back to the ground by an ankle. "Don't stop!"

Easy for Lucifer to say. He's not the one trying to remember how the words go. " _Draco non_ —no, shit, that's not— _Non draco sit mihi dux, vade retro satana._ " Right? That seems right. It has to be right, because Azazel is beating Lucifer more ferociously than he was before, his focused rage shifting slowly into fuzzy desperation.

Lucifer bares his teeth and grabs Azazel by the neck. He slams Azazel to the floor and sits on him, wings spread wide and low, a physical barrier between Dean and a demon that's far, far more effective than just a desk. "I said don't stop!"

" _Vade—vade retro satana, numquam suade mihi vana._ " Azazel screams and claws at the floor; Lucifer flaps his wings hard to avoid being unseated. On the other side of the door, Dean hears another demon screaming. It doesn't matter which one. He's got one fucking job to do here, and he's going to do it. Sam and Cas can handle what's outside. " _Sunt mala quae libas. Ipse venena bibas!_ "

Azazel howls, his body thrashing under Lucifer's, but he can't escape. Not now. Not ever again. Black smoke roils from his mouth, his ears, his _eyes_ and flies up to the ceiling, squirming like a living mass, and bursts into flame. Dean lunges under the desk before the heat wave can roar past him. A window shatters with the force of it and it leaves oily soot in its wake.

And then the world goes quiet.


	7. Epilogue

Dean's ears won't stop ringing. Of course they won't, Azazel blew out and took all the windows with him. As much noise as that had to have made, Dean's faintly surprised the fire department hasn't already descended on the place. He's just as surprised when he crawls out from under the desk just in time to see Lucifer snap a djinn's neck.

Jesus.

The body hits the floor with a wet thump. One arm flops across Lucifer's foot and he shakes it off before he makes his way over to the desk. "You survived," he says, holding out a hand.

Under any other circumstances, Dean might hesitate to take Lucifer's offered hand, but right now he could use the help getting up. The ringing in his ears is still throwing off his balance. It'll take time for the sick, wobbly feeling to fade away, and until then he's grateful for the support, whoever it comes from. "Somehow thought you'd jump ship soon as you could," Dean says. He thinks he might be talking too loudly, but it's hard to tell.

"My brother likes you," Lucifer says and turns back toward Azazel's body.

Dean takes a moment to gather his bearings before joining Lucifer. He's seen demons smoke out of their bodies once or twice before, but he's pretty sure he's never actually seen one die before and honestly, he's not entirely sure what he expected from it. The fire, that makes sense, what with demons being from Hell and all. The dark blood oozing from Azazel's nose and eyes, though, that's a little weird.

"Thank fuck for the exorcism." He doesn't want to think about how much more difficult things would have turned out without it. As is, Lucifer still got his ass handed to him.

Lucifer doesn't respond. He looks almost uneasy, his mouth pulled into a thin line and his eyebrows scrunching together. The expression doesn't suit him. Lucifer looks better when he's obnoxiously overconfident.

Still, dead is dead, and there isn't much of a point hanging out in a room with a body. Lucifer leads the way back out, still cautious. There are claw marks on the walls and a few spatters of blood here and there, but it seems like things have quieted down dramatically. Lucifer steps over a barely conscious vetala lying on the floor. Her leg is visibly broken and she has a massive bruise forming on her temple. Dean doesn't miss the way Lucifer glances down at her and fluffs his wings out a little; it's pretty easy to figure out what caused that bruise. She's no threat anymore, but Dean gives her a wide berth anyway.

They turn a corner a chair leg comes flying at Lucifer's head out of nowhere. Lucifer ducks it easily and Dean almost gets nailed in the face.

"Jesus, Sam!"

"Holy shit. Lucifer. _Dean_ ," Sam says. His hair looks like it's been pulled in a hundred different directions. It's so ridiculous Dean almost manages to laugh, despite feeling like he's been thrown into a wall. "Are you okay? We heard a noise like—like an explosion or something."

"I'm okay. I'm great, actually. We got him." Even the ringing has mostly faded to a background buzz. Give it another hour and it'll be gone entirely, though Dean's convinced he's suffered some permanent damage. "What about you? Are _you_ okay? Where's Cas?"

"You really got—yeah. Yeah, Cas is okay. Ruby came after us when you two split off. I guess she mostly came after me, actually, but Cas took her out. Snapped her neck, I think, I was trying not to look. He's cleaning up." Sam turns his head and nods over his shoulder. "Through there."

Cas emerges through an archway before Dean gets the chance to go looking for him. He looks tired and has a smear of blood on his cheek, but Dean will take that over dead. Blood washes off. Broken limbs eventually heal. There's no coming back from dead.

Dean could feel pride or relief at the sight of Cas. Mostly he just feels like he wants to nap for a week. He steps forward to peek around Cas' wings into the room beyond and feels vaguely satisfied when he sees Ruby, glassy-eyed and empty. She got exactly what she deserved.

"If there are no objections, I think we should leave," Lucifer says. He turns and walks past Sam, heading back to the stairs.

Sam makes a strange noise in the back of his throat and follows after. Dean takes a little longer to follow suit. He wants to wait for Cas.

They're halfway down the main stairs when Lucifer stretches out his wings and uses them to shove Sam and Dean backwards and goddammit, Dean almost lands on his ass. Sudden manhandling is the last thing he wants right now and he opens his mouth to snap when he hears a low growl.

"Werewolf?" Sam mouths at him.

That makes sense.

Lucifer doesn't move and Dean can't see around his stupid fucking wings. Cas spreads his wings forward until the Winchesters are surrounded on all sides by a protective wall of feathers. It'd be absurd if Dean wasn't sure of how much damage a werewolf could do to a fragile human body.

The growling keeps up for a few seconds before it starts to fade. Dean listens close; he hears footsteps running toward the front door. They're lucky. The werewolf is more interested in getting away from the angels than it is in getting to the humans.

There's another werewolf and a ghoul in the kitchen when they pass through. Neither one spares more than a glance for the group, both far more interested in bolting out the door. Dean gets the distinct impression that the monsters aren't running from them but from the house.

"Guess not all Azazel's employees were happy," Sam murmurs.

Maybe not, but judging from the cuts and bruises they've all suffered, some of Azazel's employees _were_ happy. Dean just hopes all the happy workers are dead. He should be so lucky.

By now the house is quiet and with the last of the escapees vanishing across the expansive lawn, the outside is quiet, too. Castiel leads them back to their earlier entrance point; he and Lucifer are still visibly cautious, but when nothing jumps out of the bushes, they relax.

Outside the fence, Dean spares a moment to look back at the house. There's not a lot of activity, just a few shadows behind curtains here and there, probably a few lingering monsters picking themselves up off the floor and trying to decide what to do next. Dean looks up toward the blown out windows on the second floor and for a second he could _swear_ he sees a small, feminine figure standing there and looking directly at him.

"Hey. _Hey,_ do you guys see that?" He grabs Sam by the sleeve and turns his brother around.

"What?" Sam looks and squints but the figure is gone. "Relax, Dean. I'm pretty sure if anything friendly to Azazel was still left in there we'd know by now."

Dean frowns, but Sam's right. It was probably just his imagination anyway.

They make it back to the van without incident, thank fuck. Lucifer and Cas crawl into the back and lie down awkwardly; in the small space their wings have to be cramping something fierce, but Dean gets the impression that neither one of them cares. Ten minutes into the drive, Dean slips out of the passenger seat and joins them, if only because being horizontal sounds a lot better than being upright. Cas shifts as best he can to make room.

"Hey." Sam taps Dean on the shoulder and Dean startles awake. "We're about halfway there. You wanna take over for me? I'm wiped."

"Yeah, go on." Dean grabs Sam's phone while he's up. "You nap, I'll call Bobby."

Sam nods and tumbles into the empty space Dean's left behind. Dean waits until he's sure Sam is out before he gets moving again. It's a good thing Sam keeps Bobby on speed dial, too. Makes it a lot easier to call him up.

"You boys still in one piece?"

"Shit, Bobby, can't even say hello to me?" Dean can't keep the smile out of his voice. Hell, he doesn't want to. It's good to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the line. "We're good, Sam and Cas and Lucy and me. Just wanted to let you know."

"And Azazel?"

"Lucifer beat the shit out of him and Cas taught me an exorcism I'm pretty sure did the rest. He's gone, Bobby. We're golden."

Bobby grunts. "Maybe, maybe not. I've been listening to the scanners all night. There's a lot of activity out there and dirty cops don't stop being dirty just because the guy signing their checks is gone. You stay low. I'll keep in contact."

Laying low might be the safer option, but it's fucking boring. Dean's chafing at the bit within 24 hours but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. The worst part about laying low is that they can't even drive back to town and hand Lucifer back to Bobby, which means Dean gets to put up with his snide comments and the way he looks down on humanity as a whole.

No, actually, the worst part is that Sam starts making actual, honest, _earnest_ efforts to befriend Lucifer. He asks Lucifer to teach him the angels' original language.

"Enoki, Sam? Really?"

Sam sighs. "Enoki is a kind of mushroom, Dean. It's Enochian."

No, actually, the fact that Lucifer _does_ start teaching Sam Enochian might be the worst part. Dean's pretty sure it's all insults, too. Every word of the language sounds pissed off and Sam complains sometimes that it hurts his throat, but he keeps practicing anyway. That seems to impress Lucifer as much as Lucifer is ever impressed.

Dean has to retreat to the porch to escape the language lessons for a little while. It seems like a good decision. Cas sits huddled on the steps and the air of calm he used to have seems to have returned, so Dean settles in next to him and basks in the fresh air for a little bit. Sam and Lucifer's voices fade into the background, something rhythmic he could easily tune out if he wanted to.

"Was it bad?" Dean asks when the quiet gets too much for him to bear. He's never been good at sitting still.

Cas doesn't seem surprised by the question. "Not always. There were good times, too."

"We kinda treated you like a pet." It was an uncomfortable realization weeks ago. The passage of time hasn't made it any less uncomfortable. "I mean, hell, we kept you in a case, we put you in dog fights. We called them that-- _you_ called them that. We did a lot of shit to you that you didn't deserve."

"You did," Cas agrees, "but you got better."

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I really am, Cas. We haven't exactly been shining examples of humanity, have we?"

Cas smiles and doesn't say anything.

Dean abruptly realizes he likes the way the corners of Cas' eyes crinkle when he smiles. He finds the corners of his mouth curling upwards to mirror Cas' expression and that feels damn good.

Alas, the good times, such as they are, can't last forever. Lucifer and Cas can live perfectly well on water and air, but Dean and Sam need real food. They eat everything that's stockpiled in the cabin and buy from the convenience store until they start running out of money.

It's perfect timing, actually. Dean's cabin fever is getting worse, and he thinks if he has to suffer through Sam, Cas, and Lucifer arguing about the merits of Machiavelli one more time, he's going to shoot them. Or himself. He's not sure which.

The fights are out for pretty obvious reasons. Dean's pretty sure he and Sam are still public enemy number one back home and even if they weren't, neither of them are willing to put Cas in the ring anymore. It hasn't seemed right for a long time and now they've got the perfect excuse to get out and stay out. Dean figures Cas won't have any objections to the lack of fights either.

Which leaves other, slightly more savory but possibly less legal methods of fundraising at their disposal.

Which means Dean is gonna head out and hustle some pool.

This seems like a great plan on the surface. They're a good eighty miles from home, the cops and familiar faces they used to know are nowhere nearby, Dean is generally good at hustling pool and besides, it's not like they have much of a choice. He's not expecting to make much from it, a couple hundred bucks at most. He's also not expecting to see one of the werewolves from Azazel's mansion show up at the bar either.

Dean leaves the bar without starting up a single game and drives back to the cabin. He grips the steering wheel so tightly on the way that his hands ache before he's halfway there.

"We need to go."

"What?" Castiel looks up from where Sam is trying to teach him how to play poker. "Why? What happened?"

"One of Azazel's—one of the wolves was at the bar. Maybe there's no love lost between him and his old boss, but...but we need to go. We've been here too long and we're still too close to ground zero."

Sam frowns. "A clean break could be a good thing."

"A clean break's probably the best thing we can do. So let's go."

They pack up and move some distance away. Lucifer grumbles, of course, because difficult seems to be his default setting. Dean finds a house with a detached garage and starts a small business as a mechanic. The location is great, partly because Dean's a lazy bastard who doesn't get out of bed any earlier than he has to and partly because Cas isn't half bad with cars and having the work nearby means he can help out without being seen. Sam manages to find work in a library and that just leaves Lucifer with cabin fever. 

Well, that lasts as long as it takes for Lucifer to discover cooking, at which point he starts finding ways to trick Dean into eating vegetables or Sam into eating junk. Hobbies. Everyone needs one.

It's tight, but it works out fine and the routine they get going is pretty comfortable. Dean or Sam calls Bobby every few days, just to say hello to the old man and see how he's getting on. They worry about him being on his own. Sam brings it up exactly once. Bobby laughs until he wheezes and says "Alone? Boy, I've dreamed of the day I finally got you two out of my hair, let me enjoy my peace and quiet!" Sam laughs and doesn't bring it up again.

Things are quiet for a while. Dean is finally settling into the new life they've built when the first phone call comes out of the blue. There's a woman on the line; Dean flirts with her the same way he flirts with any woman who calls the shop, but he can't even get her name out of her.

"Do you know Alistair," she asks.

That's a weird question to ask a mechanic, and Dean is pretty sure if she knew him from his fighting days, she'd have introduced herself. He plays along anyway. "Yeah, I do. Or I used to. He does inspections for the Roadhouse fights. Why?"

"Oh."

Dean tries to ask why again, but she's already hung up.

Lucifer frowns when Dean mentions it. "That's an odd question," he says. "Have you told your brother?"

Sam doesn't have anything more useful to say on the matter and Cas is elbows deep in an engine when Dean thinks to bring it up to him. It's an odd question, but nothing comes from it, so Dean eventually decides not to think about it too hard and get back to work.

The second phone call comes less than a day later.

"Dean Winchester?"

"Of Winchester Mechanic, yeah. What can I do for you?"

The woman on the other end of the line sighs. "My name is Madison. I heard you or your brother might be able to tell me something about an angel-killer. Her name's Eve."

"I can tell you a little about her, but honestly, I don't know a whole lot. She's earned the nickname, though, I know that much. Ask me whatever you want, I'll do my best."

In the end, Dean's only on the phone with Madison for five minutes. He just doesn't have answers for most of her questions. When she hangs up, he can tell she's frustrated. Hell, Dean's frustrated, too. He wishes he had more information to give her. He wishes he had more information period. After a few weeks of nothing thinking about Eve at all, now that's all he can think about.

A week later, someone named Victor calls and says he heard Dean has an angel that "survived Eve" and now it's just getting weird.

Dinner seems like as good a time to sit down and go over details with everyone as any. Dean never thought the way they got split up back at Azazel's would be a good thing, but it is. Sam and Cas saw things Lucifer and Dean didn't, after all.

"There were others that ran," Cas says. "Even at the beginning of the ambush, there were some that ran away from us instead of toward us. Azazel might have sent his monsters against us, but I think many of them saw it as the perfect chance to escape."

Sam chimes in. "There was a djinn at one point that came right for me. Cas was on the other side of the room and I swear I thought that was the end of me, but it shoved past me and kept on going. Half of them straight out ran. No question."

"You think Azazel kept all his monsters in that house?"

"Seems reasonable," Sam says. "It's not like he trusted them and a lot of them were worth a lot. He'd have wanted to keep an eye on them."

Lucifer is the first to see where Dean's aiming the conversation. "None of us saw Eve. Dean and I did see the marks she left on Azazel."

"Yeah, we—what?" Dean turns and almost overbalances. Cas nudges him gently upright again. "Saw the marks? What marks?"

"When Castiel was burning Eve's poison from his body, he vomited black blood. The same stuff you and I saw coming from Azazel's eyes and ears." Lucifer says it calmly, like he's talking about what to make for dinner and not a monster.

Castiel frowns. "I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised. You weren't exactly all there. Regardless, Dean, I think Eve got to Azazel long before we did. I think he was already dying. All you did was give him the final push," Lucifer says.

Dean suspects Lucifer might be right. He just doesn't know how to react to it or what to do about it. He retreats out to the garage to think and Cas joins him some time later, a quiet presence in the darkness.

Bobby calls a few days later. "You're not gonna like this."

No, probably not. "What's the word, Bobby?"

"Unfortunately, I've got some big news for you. I don't know how much you've already heard, so I'm just gonna spill it all. There's rumors flying that some of Azazel's dirty cops are in Alistair's pocket now and considering he just ditched his inspection gig and bought himself a new house, I'm inclined to believe it."

Well, Bobby was right. Dean doesn't like it, but he's not as surprised by the news as he thought he'd be. "That's Alistair, though. He's always been a creepy bastard. Figured he'd just shift his focus, right?"

"It gets worse." Bobby pauses. There's the sound of a bottle opening and liquid being poured into a glass. It takes a moment for him to start talking again. "I heard from Crowley about a week ago, he said he had some info about Eve for me. Info about her and Azazel."

Dean waves at Sam to grab the other handset and start listening in. "Info? What info? What'd he have other than the fact that she worked for him?"

"Hell if I know. Crowley's gone and vanished. My guess is he's buried himself underground, but I don't know. What I do know is this: Eve's been showing up at fights again, but she's not in the ring these days. She's been standing up in the crowd with Alistair. She's his partner, Dean, and I think she might've had more to do with Azazel biting the dust than you did."

"Yeah, we were starting to come to that conclusion, too." Dean lets out a breath slowly through his teeth and looks at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Poor kid's gone pale. Dean can't blame him; he probably looks just as bad. This is not the news they wanted to hear. "You don't have any good news for us, do you?"

"'Fraid not," Bobby says, his tone apologetic. "Crowley's not the only one missing. There's a woman, too. Don't know much about her, though. Crowley was gonna pass that on to me. There is one thing going in our favor, though."

Thank fuck. Dean will take it. "What's that?"

"Alistair's a lot sloppier than Azazel ever was. He's got to go, boys. You just take care this doesn't become a regular thing for you, you hear me? This city's already lost enough."

Dean hangs up and looks at his brother. Looks at Lucifer. Looks at _Cas_.

"I can't do anything about Eve," Cas says. "She's far stronger than I am and I don't think I'd survive facing her a second time, but I can stop Alistair." Cas smiles, all confidence, every inch the soldier he's told Dean he is. Maybe even a little predatory.

"I can handle Eve." Lucifer's smile is unquestionably predatory. "I've seen her work up close and personal twice now. I know what she does and how her poison works. She's not a threat to me. Not a threat to the rest of you, either."

"Dean and I can get you anywhere you need to go," Sam says with a grin. "We do technically own you after all. Who's gonna stop a couple of ordinary humans from transporting their belongings?"

It sounds like a plan to Dean. He grabs his keys off the wall. "I'll get the van running."

\--End.


End file.
